


no grave can hold my body down, i’ll crawl home to him

by moonythejedi394



Series: the same story; told different ways [19]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Play, Alpha Bucky Barnes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Body Dysphoria, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Canon Divergence - No Hydra Takeover, Canon-Typical Violence, Come Eating, Creepy Brock Rumlow, Crying, Daddy Kink, Dehydration, Depression, Dom Bucky Barnes, Dom/sub, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Sex, Explosions, Goat Farm, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Identity Porn, M/M, Mating Bond, Mental Health Issues, Misunderstandings, Mood Swings, Motion Sickness, Mpreg, No Condoms, Non-Consensual Spanking, Omega Steve Rogers, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Possessive Bucky Barnes, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Retirement, Reunion Sex, Scent Marking, Shock, Smut, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Sub Steve Rogers, Top Bucky Barnes, Touch-Starved, Vomiting, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22773232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonythejedi394/pseuds/moonythejedi394
Summary: 1917; James "Bucky" Barnes is born. 1918; Steve Rogers is born. 1936; Bucky Barnes bonds Steve Rogers. 1941; Bucky Barnes is drafted. 1943; Steve Rogers becomes Captain America. 1945; Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers die separately. 1972; the Winter Soldier is recovered by SHIELD. 2011; Captain America is recovered by SHIELD.2012. The Winter Soldier is asked to care for Captain America during subdrop.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: the same story; told different ways [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/974361
Comments: 281
Kudos: 1790
Collections: spendin his money





	1. prelude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _is this??? another a/b/o fic???? in a d/s universe??? you bet._
> 
> _this is beta'd by[mira](https://twitter.com/depressivesth) yet again, whose english is probably better than mine._

#  _ prelude _

  
  


_ CSM James B. Barnes, 32557038. Male, Alpha. Dominant, precise rank unknown. Born 03/10/1917, New York, New York. KIA 02/01/1945. _

SHIELD gave him a box of files on all the people they assumed he’d care to know about in the future. Peggy’s file had been at the very top. He’d had to dig around to find Bucky’s, it was near the bottom of a stack of former Howlie agents. He ends up looking through it three or four times a day. There’s a bit of brief information on his childhood and teen years, all facts that someone had probably gotten from Bucky himself because hardly any of it is true. He’d been born on a boat to New York, for one. Then, some assessments by Army officials from his time in boot camp, then in sniper training, then actually deployed. There’s even a couple of letters to Winnie and his sisters that must’ve never made it to the mailing office. There’s just one photograph of him. Steve spends maybe half his time sitting at his kitchen table just looking at the grainy image of Bucky’s unsmiling face.

There isn’t much that a string of numbers can do to one’s emotions. Bucky’s date of birth and date of death do a lot. 

*

_ Codename: Winter Soldier. Male, Alpha, 9-0. DOB unknown. _

It’s not a lot of information. It’s a lot more than he’d had thirty years ago, but not any more than what he’d learned after SHIELD first picked him up. His designational rank is fixed now, that’s all. SHIELD can’t even give him a narrow age range. He’s anywhere from thirty to sixty years old.

He’s had a few names since the 80s. He’d been Winter for a long time, but that hadn't felt right. A coworker joked that he looked like a John, and he’d gone by that for about a year. Of all the names he’s tried, he’s known that none of them were right. Eventually, he realized that names really only mattered to civilians, and he hasn’t spoken to a civilian probably for a good decade. Now, people just call him Soldier.

It’s fine. He’s made peace with the mystery of his past. It’ll give him and God something to fight over in the afterlife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _okay y'all chapter one will be up ummmm later this week??? next week??? see you then_
> 
> "CSM James B. Barnes, 32557038."  
> mira: is it weird that I know this number by memory lol


	2. Don’t need anyone, make my own peace of mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _i almost posted ch.2 instead of ch.1 bc i'm a Dumbass._

#  _ part 1: Don’t need anyone, make my own peace of mind _

_  
  
_

Natasha walks in after Fury with a long stride, arms tight across her stomach.

“Gimme news,” Fury says in a short tone.

“Captain Rogers has broken about every piece of equipment in the room,” a white coat answers. “We did manage to get a blood sample before he started rampaging, however. His numbers are off the chart.”

“Well, a super soldier’s gonna have a super drop,” Fury huffs. “How do you plan to treat him?”

“Well, uh,” the white coat says.

Something crashes into the window overlooking the containment space. Natasha just steps closer and looks down into the drop room. Rogers is about 40 feet below the observatory, standing in artificial grass next to a koi pond she supposes is meant to be relaxing. He picks up a rock from the arrangement, cradles it to his stomach, then lifts it over his head and gives it a good swing. Natasha just raises her eyebrows as she tracks the rock flying through the air; it hits the window with sound loud enough to make her blink, but the glass doesn’t break despite the probable fifty pounds of solid rock. Rogers drops his fists to his side as the rock falls to the ground and just starts screaming something. The room is soundproof, unfortunately, and he’s too far away for her to read his lips.

“We can’t exactly get close enough to administer a hormone cocktail to him,” the white coat says hesitantly. “The last person who tried to touch him has about six broken ribs and a concussion. But he’s experiencing a very severe and likely extremely painful drop, so we can’t just let him ride it out.”

“What do his levels say?” Fury just asks.

Rogers sticks both hands in the air and waves both middle fingers. Natasha raises her eyebrows.

“It’s a bit complicated,” the white coat deflects.

Natasha and Fury both turn; the white coat actually flinches, clutching her clipboard to her chest.

“Captain Rogers is very high ranked,” she says. “True nine.”

“You know any super subs?” Fury asks Natasha.

“There’s always Tony,” Natasha mutters.

“Actually,” the white coat pops up again, “Captain Rogers is – Well –”

“What?” Fury says. “Spit it out.”

Another fifty-pound rock crashes into the window. Natasha turns back and sees a single, spidery crack.

“The Captain isn’t a nine-oh,” the white coat says.

“You said he was a true nine?” Fury retorts.

Natasha’s eyes widen and she jerks back around to look back through the window. Rogers flings another rock and manages to miss. 

“You’re shitting us,” she mutters.

“He’s a zero-nine,” the white coat finally admits.

Rogers picks up the last mini-boulder from the koi pond and throws it. It hits the glass about a foot to Natasha’s left and drops back to the ground with about thirty other rocks. Rogers drops into a squat, grabs his hair, and presumably just starts screaming because his mouth stretches wide open in his thoroughly red face.

“Your measurements have got to be wrong,” Fury insists. “Rogers is not submissive.”

“We ran the test eight times,” the white coat insists. “He is.”

“The man is giving the Hulk a run for his money!” Fury then shouts. “What submissive responds to a drop by trying to concuss their medical staff!”

“Apparently Steve Rogers does,” Natasha says. “Holy fuck.”

“It gets worse,” the white coat mutters.

Natasha tears her eyes away from Rogers’ scream to gape incredulously at the white coat. She flinches again.

“Tell me how this can get worse,” Fury demands.

“His blood panel indicates that he’s bonded,” the white coat squeaks. “That’s why he’s dropping so bad.”

Fury covers his face with a hand. Natasha looks back out the window, at Rogers still screaming at the top of his lungs probably, and just stares.

“Rogers has been operating in this century for eight months,” Fury says behind her. “How on God’s shitty brown earth is he dropping  _ now? _ ”

“I don’t know. Maybe it just got too much. Maybe it’s an anniversary. I don’t know.”

“Why the hell hasn’t he dropped before! Has he and we’re only catching him now?”

“His levels look like it’s the first time since he was thawed.”

“Jesus Christ,” Fury sighs, stepping closer.

Natasha shakes her head. Rogers finally collapses onto his knees, his hands over his head, but he still might be screaming. The drop room, which was probably once very pristine and neat, is scattered with broken shrubbery and dungeon equipment. There are individual condom packets floating on the surface of the pond.

“There’s no way of knowing who he was bonded to before without getting him to tell us,” the white coat says. “He’s probably deeply mourning them. Even still –”

“He needs a drop partner,” Natasha guesses.

“One he won’t snap in half,” the white coat adds.

Natasha glances at Fury. Fury stares through the glass with his eyebrows knit close together.

“I could go in,” Natasha offers.

“He needs another true nine,” the white coat pipes up. 

“I doubt there’s another agent in the whole of SHIELD who could take him hand-to-hand,” Natasha snaps over her shoulders. “I can take him down.”

“No,” Fury says. “I know a guy.”

Natasha looks at him. He’s scowling.

“Anyone with a rank less than nine-oh will probably only make him worse,” the white coat insists. “I can think of maybe three agents who are Dominant enough and strong enough –”

“I know a guy,” Fury repeats, turning around. “Can you gas him with a sedative or something?”

“We are,” the white coat sighs.

“Shit,” Fury sighs. “Alright. I can have my man here in an hour.”

The white coat looks like she wants to argue. Fury just walks out. Natasha looks back through the window.

“Can you tell from his blood panel how strong his bond was?” she asks softly.

“No.”

The white coat steps up to the window, looking down at Rogers as well. She looks almost as frazzled as he is.

“But he’s got to be in excruciating pain,” she says. “If he’s been holding this back for at least eight months –”

“Super soldier’s got to have a super drop,” Natasha echoes Fury’s words softly when the white coat doesn’t finish.

Rogers pushes up to his feet and staggers across the room. He picks up one of the small boulders, hefts it onto his shoulder, then swings it around and throws it at the reinforced doors to the drop room.

“This was built for the Hulk,” the white coat whispers. “I’m afraid he’ll break it before Director Fury gets that agent here.”

“Bet you fifty on it,” Natasha blurts.

The white coat looks horrified. Natasha shrugs and looks back at Rogers, swinging another rock. She wouldn’t put it past the stubborn bastard.

*

He hears someone approaching and chooses to ignore it. This gym is protected by a security requirement, which means that whoever has just entered, they're one of maybe four people. He dodges the training bot’s kick with a flip and catches it in the head with his heel before he hits the ground again with a massive thud that shakes the whole ring; the bot loses its balance and falls over, then just spins in place helplessly. He pushes his hair back and just shakes his head at the thing.

“I’ll tell Stark they need an update,” Fury calls.

Soldier glances once at the director, then heads for the corner of the ring and grabs his towel. Fury strides into his view again.

“Where am I going?” Soldier preemptively asks, wiping his face.

“Deep medical,” Fury says.

Soldier drops the towel and just looks at him, blinking. Fury’s face is blank.

“If you want to run tests –” Soldier starts, but Fury shakes his head. “What?”

“There’s a sensitive matter we could use your help on,” Fury says.

“That’s code for what?” Soldier demands, turning around to get his water bottle.

“Code for there’s a job only you can do and I need you to do it.”

Soldier grabs his water bottle, pops the top, and squirts it directly into his mouth instead of sucking on it in public. He wipes his face with the towel again, then hops sideways and kicks the training bot square in the face on its next spin. It trills sadly and stops moving. Soldier pulls the cords on the ring up and ducks under them, then jumps down.

“While you’re updating shit, make that thing tougher,” he says, slapping the floor of the boxing ring. “Can I shower before you drag me off to this job?”

“It might be better if you don’t,” Fury answers.

Soldier turns around again and frowns at him. Fury is still blank, calm and emotionless. Soldier narrows his eyes.

“I stink,” he says carefully.

“Yep,” Fury says tightly.

Soldier tosses his towel around his neck, then grabs the ends and pulls on it. He’s already sore and hot from his workout. Looking close, he can see stress in Fury’s eye.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Fury starts forward in a calm stride. Soldier falls into step beside him and squirts water at the back of his mouth again. As they enter an empty elevator, Soldier caps his water. 

“Who’s dropping?” he asks.

“I’ll let you know when we get there,” Fury answers, slapping a button for the lowest level.

“Gotta be somebody high profile, then,” Soldier jokes. “Who is it, the President? The Hulk? Please tell me you want me to turn the Hulk into my sweet little boy.”

Fury doesn’t even glance at him. The elevator starts to glide down. Soldier leans against the railing.

“It isn’t actually the Hulk,” he says. “Fury, I’m enhanced, I’m not Asgardian.”

“It’s not the Hulk,” Fury snaps.

Soldier pops his water bottle cap again and takes a swig. Fury looks dead ahead, hands folded behind his back.

“They gotta be high-ranked and enhanced,” Soldier guesses. “Otherwise you wouldn’t’ve asked your best assassin.”

“You’re not my best assassin,” Fury says calmly. “Top five, sure.”

“Bullshit,” Soldier mutters. “I got, what, a hun’nard kills t’a my name in the past decade alone? Top five, my ass.”

Fury doesn’t respond to that. Soldier squints at him, getting more and more intrigued.

“It’s somebody top-secret, ain’t it?” he asks.

“Just wait,” Fury snaps.

Soldier huffs and turns to look outside the glass shaft. They soon reach the ground level and go below it.

After another few minutes, the elevator stops. Fury gets off and starts walking. Soldier clips his water bottle to his belt and, as they turn a corner, takes the bottom half of his mask from his pocket and clips it into place over his mouth and nose. His goggles refresh automatically and tell him that Fury’s blood pressure is high.

“You should get that hypertension checked out,” he remarks, his voice altered under his mask. “Could be dangerous.”

Fury doesn’t answer. 

They go through a labyrinth of corridors and stairwells and sealed doors that Fury has to grant him special clearance for. The deeper they go, the more curious Soldier gets. Whatever submissive is at the bottom of this rabbit hole, they’re important.

Finally, Fury takes him into a long room with a window overlooking an enclosed area. Soldier spots a couple of doctors and Black Widow, but goes for the window first.

“Holy shit,” he mutters.

Captain America is destroying a large rock with a slightly smaller rock. The shattered remains of other rocks litter the ground around him. 

“You want the Winter Soldier to take him down?” Black Widow demands immediately.

“He’s equally ranked and enhanced enough to keep up with Rogers,” Fury says.

“No offense, but the Soldier’s not exactly the warm and fuzzy type,” Widow snaps.

“None taken,” Soldier answers. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s dropping,” Widow answers smartly.

Soldier rolls his eyes and turns around to face the doctors in the room, his goggles automatically pulling up facial recognition and identifying all of them. He addresses the woman in the middle, a Dr. Elise Ricter.

“What set him off?”

“We don’t know,” Ricter says. “But this is the first time he’s dropped since waking up and his levels indicate that he was bonded before.”

Soldier turns around and looks at the Captain again, looking harder, and just shakes his head. The Captain is releasing whatever pain he’s in through aggression and violence, as evidenced by the wrecked state of the drop room. They’d probably tried to treat him with drugs before calling in a Dom, so he’ll be even more on edge from the chemicals. If he’s violent now and, as he’s apparently equally ranked to the Soldier, highly submissive, then there’ll be a fight before any progress can be made.

“We don’t know who he was bonded to,” Ricter adds.

“Not important,” Soldier says. “Can I get privacy?” he asks, gesturing to the window. “Some curtains or something so he knows he’s not being watched anymore?”

“Yeah,” another doctor answers. “Yeah, good idea.”

Soldier nods and looks around. “Where’s the entrance?”

Ricter hurries forward. “I’ll show you.”

He nods and follows her through the other end of the observation room, down yet more stairs. She enters a code at a sealed door, then turns a handle before the room hisses and it swings open.

“Quick!” she says.

Soldier steps inside. She shuts the door again behind him and the room hisses again, pressurizing.

The Captain is in the middle of the room, but he’s not smashing rocks anymore. His head is hanging low, his shoulders heaving fast and shallow. Soldier steps sideways, circling him instead of moving closer. His goggles bring up the Captain’s profile; Rogers, Steven Grant, born 4th July, 1918, male, Alpha, dominant. Circling him, however, the Soldier knows for a fact that Rogers is an Omega by his scent, for all the rigidness in his posture and the circling heat of hostility in the air. Beneath the aggression, he smells like a cornered and frightened submissive.

He gets level with the Captain’s side before Rogers suddenly yells and flings a chunk of rock at him. Soldier drops and rolls to the side as the rock hits the wall and smashes into powder and pebbles. Soldier gets up again and prowls around to be in front of Rogers.

“Who the fuck are you supposed to be?” Rogers snarls.

“Your partner,” Soldier answers.

Rogers bares his teeth. Soldier almost questions if the Captain’s a submissive at all.

“Fury thinks you can take me down?” Rogers demands. “Both of you are  _ pathetic! _ ”

Rogers hurls another rock. Soldier jumps out of its path, then turns his neck to crack it and shakes out his shoulders.

“Then take me down, sweetheart,” he dares. “C’mon. Show me what a big boy you are.”

Rogers only snarls and hurls yet another rock. Soldier jerks his left arm up and catches the lump; it’s about the size of his head. He clenches his jaw, mentally recalibrates the arm, and squeezes. The rock cracks and crumbles in his hand.

Rogers grits his teeth. Soldier drops the pieces left in his palm, then gestures him on.

Rogers jumps up and charges at him with a roar. Soldier  side steps easily and goes behind his back. Rogers has to spin around, but he swings his fist in a wide Haymaker as he yells again. Soldier blocks it easily and uses Rogers’ arm and weight against him to spin him around in the other direction before giving him a shove. Rogers stumbles, shakes himself, then charges again like a bull. Soldier jumps out of the way and waves his hand like a red flag.

“C’mon, you don’t need a Dom,” he challenges, “prove it, knock me out and you can go home.”

“They should’ve let me go home hours ago!” Rogers screams, charging.

He runs in a straight line and seems to have tunnel vision. Soldier steps out of his path easily.

“Why?” he asks. “What good would it do you to go home?”

Rogers just screams and charges. Soldier jumps back and gets behind him. Rogers staggers when he turns around, but he swings wildly and Soldier just blocks it.

“You’re a mess,” he says, “you’d kill yourself before you got out of this.”

Rogers screams. He tries to throw Soldier, but Soldier slips out of his grip and slides under his arm, popping back up behind him. Rogers turns and swings and Soldier steps out of the way.

“You can’t help me!” Rogers snarls at him. “No one can!”

“Does it look like I’m helping you right now?” Soldier counters. “C’mon, ain’t you a smart boy, sweetheart, I think it’s obvious what I’m doing.”   
  


Rogers just yells and tries to hit him again. Soldier blocks it and jumps behind him.

“You can take me, come on,” he eggs Rogers on, “I’m not that big, I ain’t that strong, what’s keepin’ you?”

Rogers tries to grab him and Soldier drops out of the way before darting to the side. 

“Hold still!” Rogers yells.

“You want me to go easy on you?” Soldier counters.

Rogers screams again. His screams aren’t angry at all; they’re charged with misery and pain and Soldier… He almost feels something at it.

It makes sense. Rogers is in pain, he feels alone, whoever he’d belonged to before is gone, he’s scared. He’s lashing out in the most logical way. The Soldier has to prove he can stand up to him, or he won’t have Rogers’ respect.

Rogers tries to hit him again, but his attacks aren’t thought out and lack finesse. Soldier doesn’t attack in return, he only dodges the clumsy swings and occasionally knocks Rogers off balance. It doesn’t look like Rogers realizes what he’s doing; he’s too focused on his pain and fear.

“C’mon, you’re bigger than me!” Soldier challenges. “I can’t take you down, that must mean you can take me down!”

“Shut up!” Rogers only screams at him.

He attacks and Soldier side-steps. Rogers isn’t picking up his tactics, he isn’t trying anything new, he just goes for another Haymaker and Soldier catches his fist and throws him.

Rogers falls back, stumbles over his feet, and trips. He lands hard on his ass and drops onto his elbows and then doesn’t get back up. Soldier moves quickly, grabs Rogers’ hair and flips him by his shoulder onto his front, then drops onto his back and pins him with a knee between his shoulders and the other trapping his tangled legs. He presses Rogers’ cheek into the sod by his hair and puts the vibranium hand on the back of his neck. Rogers gasps and his eyes squeeze shut.

“Cold?” Soldier asks.

Rogers doesn’t answer, but he’s panting.

“Looks like I won,” Soldier says calmly. “Still think I can’t take you down?”

Rogers abruptly struggles. Soldier doesn’t budge. Rogers goes limp and his face slackens. Soldier bends close to his ear.

“You gonna trust me now?” he asks.

“No,” Rogers whispers.

His voice cracks. Soldier can smell through Rogers’ sweat and anger the sour touch of misery. Rogers is broken, and the Soldier’s dodging hadn't done that.

“You’re safe,” Soldier says softly. “You can trust me.”

Rogers shakes his head minutely. He squeezes his eyes shut and his breath hitches audibly. He wheezes; he’s trying not to sob. Soldier changes the pin, puts his chest on Rogers’ back and frames his hips with his knees, squeezing tightly. He holds the back of Rogers’ neck and holds him tightly.

“Cry,” he coaxes. “It’s alright, sweetheart. You need to cry.”

Rogers gasps, but he thrashes instead of sobbing. Soldier squeezes him tighter, using his whole weight to keep him down, and Rogers goes limp again.

“You need to cry,” Soldier growls. “So cry.”

“No,” Rogers whimpers. “Don’t wanna.”

Soldier puts his mouth up against Rogers’ ear and growls softly. Rogers only whimpers again and twists to face the earth. Soldier shifts the grip on his neck a little higher, pressing a knuckle against the tight muscles at the base of Rogers’ skull and squeezing with his other fingers and thumb along the sides. Rogers exhales heavily and shifts his head to the side again, sucking in air.

“Cry,” Soldier rumbles. “Be a good boy, Stevie.”

Rogers lets out a little gasp. He sucks in more air and his exhale shudders. The use of his name in the diminutive seems to have touched him. Soldier starts to rub his thumb into Rogers’ neck and tucks his face against his hair, breathing against his ear. The mask is conformed to his nose and the air movement is unobstructed. He feels Rogers shiver under him and tucks his nose closer to his ear, so he’ll be able to hear the Soldier’s calm inhales and exhales and that shiver will just keep going.

Rogers stinks like anger and fear and upset still, a cocktail that reminds him of poorly distilled vodka, but with his nose tucked right against his hair, the Soldier picks up a faint sweetness. He can only guess that Rogers, when in a less negative mood, would smell like a bakery.

“It’s okay,” Soldier murmurs. “Know why you gotta cry, honey?”

Rogers shakes his head shortly. Soldier adjusts his grip on his neck and strokes up into his hair for a moment before resuming the hold.

“Tears are good for your body,” he says. “You release all those tears, it’ll help balance out your hormones.”

“I don’t want the fucking hormones,” Rogers spat.

“Can’t do nothin’ ‘bout that,” Soldier answers. “Your body’s gonna make hormones whether you wan’ ‘em or not.”

“You’re gonna make me take yours,” Rogers snaps back. “I don’t wan’ ‘em.”

“Nobody said I was gonna fuck you,” Soldier retorts. “What world you livin’ in, kid? I’m your drop partner, not your Dom.”

“Fucking right,” Rogers growls. 

He tries to shake Soldier off again. It’s barely more than the shiver. Soldier grips his neck and squeezes his knees harder.

“Your Dom can’t be here,” Soldier says carefully, “that doesn’t mean –”

“My Dom is dead!” Rogers snarls. “Talk to me about moving on, I fucking dare you!”

Soldier grips his neck harder and Rogers loosens some under him. Soldier tucks his nose against Rogers's ear again and just breathes evenly. Rogers automatically starts to match his inhales and exhales to the Soldier’s and for a moment, he relaxes.

“My Dom is dead,” Rogers repeats, quieter. His voice cracks again. “He’s dead.”

“And you’re not,” Soldier points out.

“I wish I was!” Rogers screams.

Soldier’s ears ring from the volume but he grabs Rogers’ mouth, shutting him up. Rogers just screams again under his palm. Soldier removes his hand and lets him.

Rogers screams for a long time. He runs out of breath, then just inhales and screams again. After a minute, Soldier’s ears have adjusted. After maybe ten or fifteen minutes, Rogers stops.

“You need to cry,” Soldier orders him, his voice hard and grave. “Do it now.”

Rogers lets out a broken hiccup and shouts hoarsely once more. He turns his face against the sod and finally sobs hard. Soldier starts rubbing his thumb into Rogers’ neck and waits until his sobs quiet into softer cries.

“Good boy,” Soldier murmurs. “That was very good.”   
  


“I don’t want your help!” Rogers snaps weakly, his voice cracked and raw.

“Too bad,” Soldier tells him. “I’m here and I’m not leaving until you’re safe.”

“I won’t attack anybody again,” Rogers bargains. “Please. I just – I just wanna… Please.”

“What?” Soldier asks. “What do you want?”

Rogers shakes his head. Soldier nods slowly.

“You’re gonna keep crying an’ we’re gonna stay here until you’re willing to move to the bed,” he says. “Then you’re gonna cry it out more an’ I’ll hold you. I’m not your Dom, I’m not trying to replace him, I’m only here to help.”

“I don’t want help,” Rogers croaks.

“I bet your Dom would’ve wanted you to take it,” Soldier counters. “Think he’d want you to suffer like this?”

Rogers shakes his head again. Soldier hums softly.

“You cry,” he says. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. Neither are you. Nobody’s watchin’. You’re safe here.”   
  


Rogers shouts weakly into the sod and starts sobbing again. Soldier begins massaging his neck slowly as Rogers alternates sobbing and screaming.

Several long, agonizingly sorrowful minutes go by. Rogers’ crying loses its violence and volume slowly. Soldier has to grit his teeth as every ounce of his being pleads with him to do more to help the poor thing. But holding him like this, pinning him, and keeping him safe so he can cry is all that Soldier can do.

“Ready to move to the bed?” Soldier asks when Rogers’ sobs have fallen to whimpers.

Rogers nods. Soldier nods, too, then, slowly, releases his hold on Rogers and gets up. Rogers stays limp on the ground. Soldier just bends down and pulls him up, then picks him up completely and hefts him onto his shoulder. Rogers hangs over his back without resistance. Soldier carries him to the queen bed in the corner, one of the only pieces of furniture not destroyed, and gently lays him down. 

Rogers automatically curls into a fetal position, but Soldier climbs behind him and pulls him out of the ball. He locks Rogers to his chest with both arms, facing away, and hooks a leg over Rogers’ knees to pin them between his own. Rogers tries to raise his arms, but Soldier squeezes him in place.

“Stay where I put you,” Soldier growls.

Rogers falls limp against him with a quiet whimper. Soldier lifts his chin and hooks it on top of Rogers’ head. Rogers goes quiet, breathing shallowly.

“You can keep crying,” Soldier encourages him. “It’s alright, I’ll keep you safe.”

“I want my daddy,” Rogers whispers.

Soldier doesn’t question that. It’s not his place to. Captain America’s an Omega, a Submissive, and had been bonded to a Daddy once upon a time. Stranger things have happened.

Rogers doesn’t sob or scream anymore. He whimpers, occasionally twisting in Soldier’s grip. Eventually, Soldier figures that Rogers wants to face him and loosens his hold. Rogers immediately turns over and clings to him. He goes for the Soldier’s neck, whining, and the Soldier doesn’t think before lifting his chin. Rogers grabs his shirt and continues to cry softly. The Soldier pins him in place again, choosing not to question anything.

The best way to help a dropping submissive is, as Rogers had earlier implied, through a dominant’s ejaculate. The hormones that come from sex work wonders on their own, but nearly every submissive, especially highly ranked ones, get an emotional rush from their dominant’s orgasm. It’s often enough to knock them out of their drop and into a better headspace. For some, it’s the pride that they pleased their dominants, for others, it’s the relief from being claimed. Something makes the Soldier think that Rogers is the kind to be relieved.

But it would be wildly inappropriate for Soldier to attempt to help Rogers through sex. They’d never met before today and at this point, Rogers isn’t able to properly consent. He might even reject it the same way he’d done earlier. No. The best that Soldier can do is what he is doing. Holding Rogers tightly, making him feel safe, and encouraging him to cry. He has to keep reminding himself of that. It’s fucking hard not to do anything more when his head is full of Rogers’ sour scent and his crying rings in his ears.

Rogers cries. The Soldier keeps his grip tight. The light in the room dims slowly, and once it’s dark, Rogers’ sniffles and tears ebb into even breathing. When he’s asleep, into REM, the Soldier slips away. He finds a weighted blanket and drapes it over Rogers’ body, then leaves, stepping around the remaining carnage to get to the door.

The doctors must have been keeping an eye on them, because the door opens for him when he approaches it. Another doctor lets him through and he heads back up to the observation room. The window is covered by curtains, but Black Widow is looking through a gap in them. Fury and the other doctors are waiting.

“He’s asleep,” Soldier says, though he expects they know that.

“Thank you, Soldier,” Fury answers. “I can trust you to keep what you learned here confidential, right?”

His tone leaves little room to argue. Soldier nods and starts to leave.

“Did he say who he was bonded to?” Widow calls after him.

Soldier pauses at the door. “Even if he did,” he answers, “I wouldn’t say.”

He leaves.

He gets out of the building, still in his gym clothes. It’s night out. A few blocks away from SHIELD where he’s away from anyone who would want to see him, he pulls off his goggles and mask and takes a deep breath of DC’s fresh, exhaust and tobacco-laden air, sweeping his flesh hand through his hair. 

He walks home instead of taking the subway. Nobody would appreciate him bringing Rogers’ scent into that cramped space. He lets himself into his meager apartment, drops his keys onto the kitchen counter, and crashes onto the sofa. His cat leaps onto his leg and sniffs him before jumping down again and stalking off, tail low.

“Thanks, Alpine,” Soldier calls after the grumpy creature.

He covers his eyes with his arm and tries to not repeat Rogers’ screaming in his head. He can still smell him.

He falls asleep on the couch. He wakes up with a crick in his neck, a stiff back, his arm overheated from being crammed between himself and the couch, and a fading memory of what he’d been dreaming. A blonde, blue-eyed boy – absolutely gorgeous, blushing, freckled, with crooked front teeth and a gap between the upper incisors – grinning up at him and calling him  _ Daddy. _

*

Steve wakes up warm with a heavy weight on him. He lifts his head and looks around. He’s in a garden? There’s a stream nearby with a small waterfall and a pond? It must be almost dawn, is he outside?

“How are you feeling, Steve?” a woman’s voice calls from a PA system.

Steve sits up and squints as he looks around. The ceiling is actually a series of panels, as are the walls. The drop room. 

“Fine,” he says automatically.

“Would you be willing to provide a blood sample for us?”

“Yeah,” he says, sighing.

A door across the room opens and a nurse enters with a cart. Steve pushes the blanket, which is very heavy somehow, off him and scoots to the edge of the bed. He sticks his arm out to the nurse and they wordlessly clean a vein, then stick it. They draw two vials of blood, then leave quickly. Steve presses the bandage to it and looks around more. The things he’d ruined yesterday (yesterday?) are all gone, leaving the room perfect again.

“What time is it?” he calls.

“Seven oh four A.M. It’s Thursday, by the way.”

It had been Monday last he’d been aware.

Steve rubs the back of his neck and gets up. He feels fine. He’s not emotional at all. He’s not even sure he’d actually dropped anymore.

He feels a little numb, but not… Not the overwhelming, all-consuming numbness he usually embraces. Right now he feels… Empty.

He knows this feeling. When Bucky had to leave while he was still out of it, if he woke up without him, this was what happened. 

The second he recognizes the feeling, it’s overpowered by horror. Another dominant did that to him. A Dom that wasn’t Bucky has left him feeling neglected.

He shoves up and strides over to the door that the nurse left through and bangs on it.

“Let me out!” he shouts.

The PA beeps. “We’re not sure about your levels yet –”

“I gotta piss!” Steve lies. “And I’m not about t’a do it here where all DC an’ their mas can see me! Lemme out!”

There’s silence. Steve breathes heavily. Then the door hisses and swings out. Steve shoves through it and just storms out. Someone hurries up to him, saying his name, but he power-walks past them and forces his way out of the room.

In just a moment, he’s escaped onto the streets. He doesn’t have his wallet on him, so he has to walk back to the shitty apartment SHIELD rented for him. He has to use the hidden key under the doormat to let himself in. He gets inside, locks the door, then lets out his breath.

Leaning against the door, he sinks to the ground. He covers his face with both hands and tries to regulate his breathing. A Dom that wasn’t Bucky took him down and left him feeling empty. It feels like he’s betrayed him.

“I have your stuff.”

Steve jerks to his feet, automatically raising his fists. Natasha is sitting in the armchair in the corner of his living room.

“Get off that,” he snaps. 

Natasha raises her eyebrows at him. She doesn’t move.

Steve strides forward and physically grabs her. He yanks her out of the chair and removes her from it. He can’t  _ look _ at her in that chair and not do it.

“Watch it!” Natasha snaps.

Steve does not shove her, even though he wants to. He puts himself between her and the chair.

“You can’t sit there,” he says with quiet anger.

“Why not?” Natasha retorts. “It’s a beat-up old chair –”

“It’s not yours!” Steve snarls.

Natasha crosses her arms over her stomach and narrows her eyes. Steve scoffs at the weakly dominant stance and strides off.

“Whose is it?” she calls.

“Get out of my apartment,” Steve orders.

“No,” Natasha says. “I’m staying until I can verify you’re not crashing anymore.”

Steve spins around and crosses the whole living room in two steps, jerking his arm up to jab a finger into her face, but she doesn’t even blink.

“I don’t need your help,” he growls. “I am  _ fine!” _

“You’re not fine,” Natasha snaps. “You ought to have another session with –”

“I don’t want it!” Steve yells in her face.

Natasha doesn’t blink. “The soldier,” she says.

“Who?” Steve demands.

“The soldier!” she snaps. “Your drop partner!”

“I don’t know his name!” Steve answers hotly. “I don’t want to see him ever again in my life! Actually, yes, I do, because I want to rip that stupid fucking mask off his face and break his nose!”

“Nobody knows his name, don’t feel bad,” Natasha says.

Steve scoffs again and spins around, walking away because now he wants to break her nose. He isn’t dropping anymore, he’s just angry.

“It’s your fault I was even in there in the first place,” he says, “if you hadn't stuck your nose where it doesn’t belong –”

“What’s with you and noses?” Natasha interrupts.

“If you hadn't stuck your nose where it doesn’t belong!” Steve repeats loudly. “I would’ve gone home and handled it by myself just fine! If you and those fucking  _ wardens _ you call doctors had listened to a word I was saying, you would’ve  _ let  _ me go home because I can take care of myself!”   
  


“Your blood screen was so full of toxins they thought you should’ve been in a puddle of malaise and pain!” Natasha snaps.

“Which I can do perfectly well in my  _ home,” _ Steve responds shortly.

Natasha strides up to him, now. She’s glaring, her eyes are narrowed, and he can just feel the disappointment rolling off her as she tries to make him  _ feel _ something. It doesn’t do anything but make him angrier.

“Is this the first time you’ve dropped since the ice?” she demands.

Steve laughs. He shakes his head and walks away from her so he doesn’t punch her in the face.

“Your levels  _ looked _ like it was the first time!” Natasha suddenly shouts. “If your levels are so high that it looks like it’s the  _ first  _ time you’ve dropped in almost a year, how the fuck are you not dead from bond sickness!”

Steve jerks around on his heel and glares at her. “Who said I was bonded?” he demands.

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“The fucking soldier!” Steve answers his own question in a snarl, spinning around again. “That  _ fucking _ knothead, he had no right –”

“It was in your blood screen,” Natasha cuts him off. “That’s a thing that modern science can do now, by the way.”

Steve looks once at her, then just starts pacing. He feels shook up, pressurized and ready to explode. He wants to hit something, he wants something to hit  _ him. _ He stops by Bucky’s chair and before he can stop himself, he falls to his knees beside it and just hangs his head against the rippled leather.

Natasha comes closer. He feels her hand approaching and hisses through his teeth angrily. She steps back.

“Don’t try to dominate me,” Steve growls. “Don’t even touch me. You’ll only make it worse.”

“I’m sorry,” Natasha says softly.

Steve turns his face away from her and huddles close to the front of the chair. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to contain his emotions. If he can just bottle them back up again, they can go back where they came from and he can ignore everything for another week or so. They’ll burst out again, yes, but it won’t be happening when someone can see.

“You can talk,” Natasha says abruptly. “To me. If you want.”

“Does it look like I want to talk?” Steve snaps.

Natasha drops down onto the floor next to him. She starts to lean on Bucky’s chair and Steve hisses at her again. She changes her balance and leans the other way.

“So, this was your bonded’s chair,” she guesses.

Steve doesn’t dignify that with an answer.

“I think I can tell who it was,” Natasha adds. “You should know that. I’d want to know in your position.”   
  


“I don’t care,” Steve mutters. “I just… I want you to go.”

“I won’t,” Natasha answers.

“You aren’t helping,” Steve insists. “I need you to go. Just – Go.”

“How do I know you’re not going to do something drastic?” Natasha asks. “Like crash-a-plane-into-the-Arctic drastic.”

Steve shuts his eyes and just inhales carefully. “It’s a sin to commit suicide,” he exhales weakly even if he doesn’t entirely believe it. “I’m still Catholic.”

“Okay, well, don’t go trying to convince anyone else of that,” Natasha replies shortly.

She gets up. Steve exhales again in relief. He hears her drop some keys and something else, probably his wallet, onto the coffee table, then walk away. The door opens, then she just stops.

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I want to,” Steve murmurs.

The door shuts. He’s left in relative silence, with just the background noise of the city through the windows.

Steve puts his arms on the seat of the chair and hugs the front of it. He squeezes his eyes shut, his mouth splitting open as he holds back his breath and a sob, and manages it for just a second. It breaks free unbidden and starts a trainwreck. He cries, soaking the already destroyed leather with his tears.

_ “You need to cry,” _ the soldier – Soldier? – had said.  _ “Tears are good for you.” _

Bucky used to say that exact thing.  _ “Cry it out, sweetheart, I’ll keep you safe.” _

Steve cries for a long time. He keeps stopping and starting again; he hasn’t cried since Bucky fell. He hates it. He’d only ever cried before when Bucky told him to.

He ends up crawling into the chair and curling up on the seat, hunching his over-large body into its frame, and just bawls. After some time, his body has caught up with the times and just keeps the tears coming. He feels awful still. His whole body is wrong – Not just in reality, but it  _ feels _ like every part of him is sick or broken. Malaise, they call it now. It’s worse than pain and he wishes that the mission they’d just come off of had left him with more injuries. He wishes that his hands had broken handling the rocks, or maybe that he’d run full speed at the walls supposedly meant to hold the Hulk. They wouldn’t have broken, but he would’ve. That would’ve been better than how he feels now.

He stays in the chair, curled up in a ball, so long that his joints finally start hurting. It doesn’t overtake the wrong feeling, but he has to get up. He wipes his face, then stumbles into his bedroom and crawls into bed. There, he covers himself in the blankets and resumes crying. He doesn’t feel better yet. Tears are supposed to do that. Then again, apparently, he’s so full of toxins that he shouldn’t be able to function anymore. Maybe several hours of crying just isn’t enough to help him back to functioning again.

He’s definitely not doing the laundry later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ahh, the sweet smell of mutual pining. you're welcome. grammarly hates the fact that i'm using Soldier as a proper noun. have i mentioned that i hate and love this tool?_
> 
> _fyi, if you're in the witcher fandom, uhhhhh i posted a thing??? that is geralt/jaskier. i have reached the point in my life where i don't get the physical reaction to nails on chalkboards when dealing with non-stucky sexual content anything, but still can't bring myself to write a whole lot of non-stucky, which is why i am also surprised that i'm casually writing another ship. i'm not switching ships, still writing stucky, but i've gained a new niche. and i like it._
> 
> "Rogers sticks both hands in the air and waves both middle fingers"  
> mira: mood
> 
> "There are individual condom packets floating on the surface of the pond."  
> mira: LMAO its a condom pond  
> me: fuck, it is
> 
> "“I know a guy[," Fury says.]"  
> mira: fury always sounds so shady... "I know a guy" who could it be? everyone from the president to a mafia boss  
> me: you,,,,,, you're not wrong???  
> mira: see??
> 
> "“I stink,” [Soldier] says carefully."  
> mira: Steve like the stink
> 
> "[The elevator] soon reach[es] the ground level and go[es] below it."  
> mira: the ground be like: "mmhhhh let me deepthroat this elevator yum yum"  
> me: wtf did you just make me read  
> mira: *several flushed emojis*
> 
> "[I]t would be wildly inappropriate for Soldier to attempt to help Rogers through sex."  
> mira: I love that soldier thinks that way bc I think anybody else (except maybe nat) wouldn't hesitate  
> me: yeah man. it's a gray area to a lot of people, doctors disagree if it's necessary or not all the time
> 
> "A Dom that wasn’t Bucky has left him feeling neglected."  
> mira: BUT IT WAS HIM 
> 
> "[Steve]’s definitely not doing the laundry later."  
> mira: big mood


	3. With one eye open all I see is you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _henlo i have more for you_

#  _ part 2: With one eye open all I see is you _

  
  


Soldier’s at home, feet up, cat purring a storm on his stomach, when Fury calls him out of schedule. He’s technically on leave. Fury shouldn’t be calling him.

Soldier picks up the phone and answers it. He puts it to his ear and just prays Alpine isn’t purring loud enough to expose him as a cat mom.

“Who’s dying?” he asks.

_ “Rogers.” _

Soldier jerks his jaw to the side. He pulls the phone away from his face and exhales heavily, then carefully pushes Alpine off him. The cat makes a grumpy noise and storms off. Soldier puts the phone back to his ear even as he stands up.

“Same place?” he says.

_ “Same place. How long?” _

Soldier checks the time on the cable box and grunts. “An hour, maybe more. Traffic.”

_ “Push it.” _

Soldier drops the phone and hangs up before Fury can, then starts getting dressed. In ten minutes, he has left out enough dry food and water for at least two days, unplugged everything except the fridge, and packed a bag. He finds Alpine on the window sill and strokes him once before heading out.

He gets on his motorcycle and immediately starts pushing the limit of what’s safe, sane, or legal on the road. He doesn’t like that Fury now knows he lives within an hour’s distance of SHIELD headquarters, but he’s not going to take the long route to make his living space obscure. It’s been less than a month since he was first called to be Rogers’ drop partner. He doesn’t like the way Fury’s tone was actually tense, either.

He makes it there in forty-five minutes. He parks in Fury’s spot instead of hunting for another one and goes straight for Deep Medical. He passes some pencil-pushers on the way out of the garage and makes them scatter. In another five minutes, he’s making his way through all the doors Fury had to key him in for; apparently, his clearance has been increased. Finally, he reaches the same drop room as before.

Fury is inside, as is the Widow. Again. She’s looking through the window, which is still curtained, with clenched fists crossing her chest. Soldier looks at her for a moment, at her tight jaw and the pale color of her face, and takes another moment to decide that she’s already tried to step in as Rogers’ partner and it failed or Fury didn’t let her even go in. At the very least, she isn’t in Rogers’ frame of reference as a Dominant.

“Have you drugged him?” Soldier just asks the doctors.

“Yes, we’ve been feeding a sedative into the air,” one answers – his goggles identify him as Brandon Warren, PA –, “but it’s doing very little.”

“It’s already off,” another says.

Soldier glances through the curtain on his way across the room. A punching bag has been installed and Rogers is going to town on it. He automatically knows that his form is off. He leaves Widow at the window and keeps going. The physician follows him and opens the chamber. Soldier climbs in.

Rogers stops the second the door opens, but starts again as the room pressurizes itself. Soldier moves forward slowly, analyzing his footwork.

“You’re leading with the wrong foot,” he says.

“I like this foot,” Rogers growls. 

“It was your better foot before, wasn’t it?” Soldier guesses. “You haven’t unlearned that.”

Rogers stops. The bag creaks slowly. Soldier moves around to stand behind it, then approaches slowly. Rogers doesn’t make eye contact, but he looks in the Soldier’s direction. Soldier carefully braces the bag.

“Do it with your other foot,” he orders.

Rogers moves. Then he stops, grits his teeth, and moves back. He stubbornly leads with the wrong foot and slams his un-taped fist into the bag. Soldier has to dig his heels in.

“What are your levels?” he asks.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Rogers grumbles.

“What are his levels?” Soldier calls louder.

Rogers stops and glares directly at him, but Soldier is looking at the window.

“Seventy-seven percent,” someone says over the PA. “Five percent increase from last time.”

Soldier whistles and looks back at Rogers, who immediately drops his gaze. Soldier taps the bag softly.

“That’s pretty bad, sweetheart,” he says.

Rogers slams a nasty undercut into the bag. Soldier catches the bag and braces himself at the last second, but he isn’t knocked off-balance. Rogers looks disappointed.

“You need a moving target again?” Soldier asks calmly. “Or can we skip straight to the real stuff?”

Rogers snarls and lunges around the bag. Soldier steps out of his path and out of reach, tucking his hands behind his back.

“I’d like to get some alcohol and some bandages on those knuckles,” he adds. “I’m not happy you didn’t wrap your hands, kid.”

“I don’t care!” Rogers snarls, lunging at him again.

Soldier steps out of the way and around. Rogers spins and swings and Soldier ducks, stepping to the side. He keeps his hands behind his back this time, because he’s not going to bother pretending that he’s actually sparring Rogers this time. This isn’t to prove anything this time, Soldier just wants Rogers to run out of steam.

“Fuck you!” Rogers snaps, adopting a stance and, again, leading with the wrong foot. “I don’t  _ want _ your help!”

“Well, I’m here,” Soldier says. “You might as well take it.”

Rogers makes a grab at him, but he has to step twice because he’s starting on the wrong foot and it’s easy to retreat out of range of his lunge. Soldier moves behind him and Rogers staggers as he spins around.

“You’re dizzy,” he says.

Rogers snarls and tries to hit him. Soldier ducks and moves out of the way.

“Did you injure yourself anywhere?” he asks. “Hit your head at all, or is it just the drop?”

“I’m not fucking hurt,” Rogers snaps, “that’s the only reason I’m in here!”

“You don’t drop when you get hurt,” Soldier guesses. “Interesting. The pain helps you avoid your emotions.”

Rogers yells and runs at him. Soldier side-steps and watches him stumble to not run into the pond.

“I had the same problem when SHIELD first recovered me,” Soldier says. “Every time I left a mission, if I wasn’t hurt, the adrenaline crash triggered a drop.”

Rogers turns around and charges again. Soldier moves out of the way.

“So I got a cat,” he continues. “Gave me someone to take care of instead of… Whoever I used to have.”

Rogers almost loses his balance turning around, stumbles, then stops, just panting. Soldier doesn’t move.

“I’m not sure it would work the same for you,” he says, “but animals make a big difference.”

Rogers yells and charges all over again. Soldier sighs and steps out of his way.

This goes on for a while. Rogers staggers every time he has to turn and it’s clear the pain he’s in is making it hard for him to think. Soldier understands it. It’s awful.

“You need help even if you don’t want it,” he says. “I know it’s hard, sweetheart. You miss your Dom.”

Rogers fully screams at that and picks up a handful of dirt and throws it. Soldier jumps backwards and it falls to the ground, harmless.

“Don’t fucking talk like you understand!” Rogers shouts at him. “You don’t! You can’t help!”   


“I helped you last time,” Soldier insists. “And I do fucking understand, kid, I was bonded before, too.”

Rogers stoops to pick up more earth, then slumps and lands on his knees. He hangs his head, his shoulders heaving with his breath. Soldier moves closer slowly, then puts his hand in Rogers’ hair. Rogers weakly bats his hand away, but Soldier just steps behind him, drops to a knee, and pulls him into a tight hold. Rogers gasps like he’s in pain and falls back against Soldier’s chest.

“I had a boy once,” Soldier says softly in Rogers’ ear. “I don’t remember him now. I only know because I had the same withdrawal that you’re having now. The tox screens weren’t as fancy when SHIELD picked me up, but they could tell me I’d been bonded.”

Rogers drops his head onto his chest, swallows hard, then picks his chin up again. “Why don’t you remember?” he asks.

“Had my brain fried too many times,” Soldier answers. “Your old pals, HYDRA, actually. Had a fancy memory-wiper device.”

“HYDRA,” Rogers repeats in a hushed whisper.

“That was thirty years ago,” Soldier adds. “I killed ‘em all, don’t worry your pretty head.”

Rogers swallows again. He’s breathing hard, but deeply.

“How,” he starts softly, “can you be here?”

“I drove,” Soldier jokes.

Rogers shakes his head. “How can you stand me?” he asks.

Soldier considers it. He puts his cheek against Rogers’ hair, thinking.

“How can you stand anyone that isn’t him?” Rogers continues, his voice breaking.

“It’s been a long time,” Soldier admits carefully.

Rogers lets out a broken noise. Soldier pulls him in tighter and locks his metal hand, not just his wrists.

“I haven’t tried being someone’s Dom in a long time,” he says. “I did, a couple'a times a long time ago, and you’re right, I couldn’t stand it. But this is different, honey, I’m not here to be your daddy, I’m just here to keep you safe.”

Rogers sucks in a breath and holds it for a second before he exhales. He’s trying not to cry.

“I don’ wan’ thirty more years,” he whispers. “I don’ wan’ thirty days. I miss him so – so fucking much.”

“I know,” Soldier murmurs. “Feels like you’ll die, don’ it?”

Rogers hiccups and nods.

“You won’t,” Soldier tells him. “You’ll survive, but only if you mean it.”   
  


“I don’ wanna,” Rogers whimpers.

Soldier tucks his masked face close to Rogers’ ear and inhales carefully, measured and intentional. Rogers sucks in another heaving breath and his lip trembles as he exhales, making him shudder.

“I don’t want help,” Rogers says again. “I really don’t. It feels  _ wrong.” _

“It’s not,” Soldier tells him gently. “We’re not going to fuck. I’m only gonna hold you an’ make sure you cry. That’s not wrong, sweetheart.”

“But I’ll want  _ that _ ,” Rogers answers, his voice cracking again. “I’ll  _ miss  _ it later. I missed  _ you _ last time! I don’ wanna!”

“You missed the hold,” Soldier says. “That’s all. It’s just your nature, it’s not your fault.”

“I don’t wanna miss it if it’s not –” Rogers starts, then doesn’t finish as he inhales sharply.

“You can cry,” Soldier encourages him. “I’ve already seen you cryin’, honey. It’s alright. Nobody’ll judge you, you’re not weak. You’re  _ strong. _ You made it this far on your own already. I couldn’t do that. Nobody could do that, Stevie, nobody’s done it before. You’re a fuckin’  _ miracle. _ ”

Rogers hiccups and shakes his head. Soldier nods.

“You need to cry,” he coaxes. “It’s what your body needs. You need t’a let go.”

“I wan’  _ my _ daddy,” Rogers insists weakly.

“I’m sorry,” Soldier murmurs. “I’m so sorry he can’t be here, honey. It’s just me now. You’re still safe. You’re still good.”

Rogers sobs, then holds his breath for a second. Soldier squeezes him tighter for a minute.

“Go on,” he says.

Rogers hiccups once, then lets go. He cries noisily, head limp on his chest. Soldier just waits for him to tire out more.

“I feel s–so  _ awful,”  _ Rogers chokes out. “I  _ want _ to be held, I  _ wanna _ be owned again! I just – An’ now I wan’ someone new! I hate it!”

“It’s not your fault,” Soldier murmurs. “That’s just how your nature works, sweetheart.”

“I miss it so much,” Rogers whimpers. “I wanna be a good boy again, wanna be y– be  _ somebody’s, _ an’ I feel so awful when I think it ‘cause I jus –  _ just  _ lost my Daddy an’ now I wanna replace ‘im!”

“Even if you took a new partner, it wouldn’t be to replace the man you lost,” Soldier says quickly. “That’ll never happen, Stevie, really, you’ll always have that Dom as part’a you an’ you’ll always be his jus’ a lil’ bit, but it’s not wrong to want to move on, ain’t your fault, neither.”

“It feels –” Rogers starts. “It feels like –”

“I know,” Soldier answers gently. “I know.”

Rogers continues to sob. For a second, Soldier wants to kiss his hair. He can’t, of course. The mask is in the way. It’s unsettling. Just like Rogers’ is describing. The guilt of wanting someone new once a bonded partner is lost doesn’t seem to ever go away.

After what feels like hours, Rogers lets his head fall back onto Soldier’s shoulder. He whines and Soldier knows he’s ready to lie down. He gets up and wraps his arms around Rogers, lifting him into a cradle easily, and Rogers clings to him. Despite his height and breadth, Rogers makes himself small in Soldier’s arms. Soldier carries him over to the bed, sits down with him first, then shuffles into the middle of the bed and lies down where he can turn them over and put his weight onto Rogers.

Rogers goes for his neck and Soldier lets him. 

He hadn't missed Rogers’ slip earlier. The start of  _ yours. _ The intense emotions experienced in drop are so fucking intimate, he’d be surprised if Rogers didn’t feel drawn to him. As Rogers mewls and whimpers and clings to him, what surprises Soldier is that that slip made him feel something.

Rogers falls asleep once he’s out of tears. Soldier waits until his eyes are fluttering from REM sleep, then gets up and replaces his body with a pillow. When Rogers curls around it, Soldier covers him with the weighted blanket again. He leaves and doesn’t say a word to anyone on the way out. It’s dark out when it had been noon on the way in.

Soldier gets his bike and drives home. Alpine greets him at the door with a yowl, likely because there had been dry food in his dish instead of wet food.

“You’re a spoiled brat,” Soldier tells the cat as he goes to get the wet food. “If you were a person, I’d be spanking you.”

Alpine purrs noisily and rubs up against his ankles. Soldier puts the dish on the floor and he runs for it, immediately chowing down. Soldier pauses to stroke his back, then heads into the living room.

He goes about plugging things in again one-by-one. He crashes on his sofa and looks up at the ceiling for a long time. There’s a water stain from the apartment above. It’s slightly bigger than the last time he stared at the ceiling.

Rogers has got to get his shit together. Being his emergency drop partner once was fine. He could shove it out of his memory as a one-off and never be concerned with it again. Twice is the start of a pattern. Twice strikes an anxious chord for the exact same reasons that Rogers doesn’t want help now.

Soldier knows he was someone before Fury found him. He knows because, over the past thirty years, he’s become positive of a few things. He’d had a family. Parents that cared about him, that had listened to him, kept him striving to grow, made sure he always had a meal and a place to sleep. He’d once had younger siblings, even. He’d grown up in a city. He has zero idea how to do anything but basic arithmetic, and apparently, math skills aren’t included in the memory-wiping electric chair, so he must not have learned anything more than that or needed more than that. Or it wasn’t taught when he was in school.

And the boy he’d had once upon a time had been his  _ boy. _ It’s not difficult to think that like Rogers’ late Dom, he’d been that boy’s Daddy. It hadn't occurred to him until he met Rogers, however. He didn’t think about Rogers unless he was forced to, but he had dreams about a boy that looked somewhat like him. A lot smaller, for one, but with the same blue eyes at least. Maybe the same lips. He hadn't really seen Rogers’ lips doing anything but snarling or crying.

Soldier doesn’t like that Rogers is intruding on what little he knows about the boy he’d had. He doesn’t like that Rogers is so fucking stubborn, that he won’t take a withdrawal treatment and just keeps dropping violently. Once is a fluke, twice is a pattern. He doesn’t like this pattern.

About six weeks later, he’s proved right. 

_ “Rogers again,” _ Fury says over the phone.

“I’m on my way,” Soldier says before he can think better of it.

*

Every time he drops these days, Natasha catches him before he can get out. He has no fucking clue what his tell is because he knows no one else can tell. But  _ her, _ her and her stupid fucking observant eyes, her unique insight with her fucking 9-9 designation and knowing personally what both ends of the spectrum feel like, she sees him and he gets hauled straight down to Deep Medical.

He’ll wake up a day or two later with little memory beyond Soldier’s mask and the feeling of being held tightly. He never remembers how Soldier gets him to submit, and he fucking  _ hates _ it. He knows he fights every damn time, but he never wins. Soldier makes him break down, then just holds him while he cries.

“Captain, you should consider a hormone treatment,” the doctor tells him again after the eleventh drop he’s had to have in their Hulk-proof chamber.

“I’ll come back in a day or two to talk about it,” he lies to them yet again on his way out.

Natasha doesn’t break into his apartment to make sure he’s not about to kill himself anymore. She seems to respect the fact that after he’s been broken down by Soldier, he needs space, even if she doesn’t respect the fact that he can cope with his drops at home by himself.

Steve never remembers what Soldier says to him, how he ends up being pinned and cradled and coaxed to tears, and he hates that almost as much as he hates that he has to see Soldier at all. The mask feels cold and inhuman to him. The voice filter on it is even worse, and with the high-tech metal arm, Steve wants to say that Soldier doesn’t even feel real to him, that leaving the drop room after being with him makes his skin crawl like it  _ should, _ because Soldier is not  _ Bucky. _

Every time he wakes up under the weighted blanket, with Soldier’s scent fading from the room, too far gone to identify, the vague memories of being held, the tears dried on his face, the crash afterward becomes less and less about Bucky. That’s the worst part.

*

Once is a fluke, two is the start of something, and now twelve times, that’s not even doing Fury a favor anymore.

“Why isn’t he on hormone therapy?” Soldier demands on his way out.

“We’re not at liberty to discuss the Captain’s medical records,” Dr. Something tells him.

Soldier growls under his breath as he leaves. They’d be at liberty to discuss the Captain’s medical records with him if he collared Rogers. He keeps thinking about that. Twelve times he’s helped Rogers with a drop, and that’s more times than he’d tried to move on from a bond he couldn’t even remember thirty years ago.

Rogers is invading his life. He can’t escape mention of Captain America on television or online, there’s always something new to learn about him. He’s noticing Rogers at SHIELD, now, across a room or down a hall, always at times that Rogers isn’t looking because he only ever sees the back of him. Fury has to realize that this is getting dangerous now. Emergency drop partners aren’t supposed to keep working together time after time like this, especially not because a submissive isn’t fucking taking care of themselves and refuses anything until they’re locked in a drop room and forced to interact with a dominant.

Soldier thinks about Rogers when he’s grocery shopping. He thinks about him when he’s feeding Alpine and calling him a brat. He thinks about Rogers when he’s replacing worn-out leather gear and whether or not Rogers would like the cut or shape of a new piece. He thinks about him when he’s jerking off and he’s coming up with all sorts of wild fantasies that feel viscerally real. 

He’s never seen Rogers naked, but he just  _ knows _ that boy’s got a great set of tits that would look gorgeous streaked in his cum. He knows that Rogers’ face would look just as good covered in cum, as would the planes of his stomach, or the swell of his ass, even the inside of his thighs. His cock and balls would look so beautiful covered in Soldier’s cum. And Soldier knows Rogers would  _ want _ to be bathed in his Daddy’s seed. He knows Rogers would cry out when Soldier split his ass open with his cock and in just the same breath beg to be fucked harder. He knows Rogers would sob in relief when Soldier comes, because he’s a boy that needs to be claimed and possessed and cared for. Rogers needs to be owned and regularly made to cry, because he’s too stubborn otherwise to let out his emotions. He needs to be held and cared for tenderly, because that would make him cry just as hard as a firm hand on his ass. And Rogers would be so sweet at the end of a scene, he’d snuggle up to Soldier so needily, he would be such a good boy for his Daddy.

Whoever Soldier had owned before had been the same. Had to have been. Soldier doesn’t like how the sight of Rogers is inspiring more and more questions about the boy he’d once owned.

Once was once too many. Twice was pushing it. With each time Soldier is called to Rogers’ drop, Rogers is worse off than the last time. It’s like his withdrawal symptoms aren’t even holding steady with time and the help of someone else, but actively getting worse. It doesn’t make sense. And each time, Rogers cries about how he misses his daddy and tells Soldier that he doesn’t want help, but goes to nuzzle Soldier’s neck the second they lie down. Each fucking time, Soldier bares his throat.  _ Twelve times, _ and Soldier’s not sure he can keep the line between emergency partner and  _ partner _ solid much longer.

When his phone rings in the middle of the night, somehow, the Soldier knows.

“Rogers, isn’t it?” he asks even as he’s getting out of bed.

_ “Yeah,” _ Fury says, like he can tell that this is getting out of hand and he doesn’t like it any more than Soldier does.

“Somebody’s gotta force that boy to take the fuckin’ hormones,” Soldier growls through the phone. “Forty minutes.”

As he’s going out the door, he knows that the third time probably was the charm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _sad boys are sad, more at 11_
> 
> "“You don’t drop when you get hurt,” Soldier guesses. “Interesting. The pain helps you avoid your emotions.”"  
> mira: issa pain kink?  
> me: it's more that pain is a distraction; when he's half-dead from agony, it's easier to not feel shit
> 
> "“I don’ wan’ thirty more years,” [Steve] whispers."  
> mira: this entire exchange here breaks my fucking heart bro why are you doing this to me :(
> 
> "“I wanna be a good boy again, wanna be y– be somebody’s,[” Steve whimpers.]"  
> mira: THE SLIP UP MY FUCKING HEART
> 
> "[Soldier] thinks about [Steve] when he’s jerking off and he’s coming up with all sorts of wild fantasies that feel viscerally real."  
> mira: *curious eye emoji* fantasies huh


	4. I will not ask where you come from (neither should you)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _quick content warning for typical violence, blood, cauterization, and some vomiting. carry on._

#  _part 3: I will not ask where you come from (neither should you)_

  
  


Steve walks into the briefing room, taking a gulp of his coffee, and lifts his eyes at the wrong moment. He chokes on the hot liquid and has to stop to cough it out, pounding a fist on his chest and wondering if he’s dreaming at the same time.

Sitwell, the agent briefing him and his partner for the mission, looks up. So does Soldier.

“You alright, Captain?” Sitwell asks.

Steve thumps his chest with a fist again and nods. He goes to sit down, directly across from Soldier. He feels suddenly and disconcertingly very numb.

“Good,” Sitwell says, completely unconcerned. “Captain Rogers, meet your asset for this mission; codename, Winter Soldier. Soldier, the one and only Captain America.”

Soldier doesn't turn his head. He only nods. He’s still wearing the fucking mask. Steve wonders if he ever takes the thing off. Does he fuck with it on?

(Steve crams that thought back where it came from with extreme prejudice.)

“Let’s get into it,” Sitwell continues.

Steve starts jiggling his leg immediately. Bucky used to cuss the fuck out of him for it, it always made the whole room shake. This briefing room is much sturdier than their old water closet, at least. 

Fifteen minutes in, Soldier turns his head towards him.

“Cut that out,” he says, voice distorted and far too deep to be real.

Steve freezes. Sitwell actually pauses. Soldier turns away again, as if nothing happened. Steve’s knee stays still.

Near the end, Steve has to ask.

“Who put this team together?” he says in a very calm tone. “This is a very extreme-weather mission, a long flight there and back, and at least forty operatives on the other side, what was the logic behind sending just two operatives who’ve never worked together?”

He wants to demand, _Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to let Steve see Soldier’s fucking mask across from him for a mission?_

“It was a bit higher up the food chain,” Sitwell explains. “We’re looking at minimizing our footprint, so the fewer agents we can send out at a time, the better. Both of you are worth about ten men each. Then, Soldier’s skill as a sniper is needed, and,” he pauses and chuckles like he thinks he’s funny, “the both of you are used to extreme cold, I hear.”

Steve just looks at Sitwell. Soldier drums his metal finger against the table three times in slow succession; _tap, tap, tap,_ pause, _tap, tap, tap_. Even that sounds menacing. Sitwell smiles for a brief second, then clears his throat and shuffles through his papers.

“I think that’s everything,” he says. “You two need to report to the armory, collect your gear, then you’ll take a quinjet as soon as that’s done. It is a long flight, but you’ll be able to sleep on the way there and back.”

Soldier just stands up. Sitwell steps out of his way as he heads out. Steve gets up and follows him, falling abreast with him easily.

Soldier looks straight ahead. Or, Steve can only think he does, as the mask covers his entire face. It’s disconcerting.

Soldier doesn’t say a word, so Steve doesn’t either. They take a very tense elevator ride up to the Armory, walk in silence from there, collect their gear in silence, and leave again for the hangers in silence. 

“I pilot,” Soldier finally speaks as they approach their jet.

“Fine,” Steve mutters. 

He still doesn’t know how to fly a quinjet, anyway. Soldier turns his head briefly, then faces ahead again. They board and Steve dumps his bag by a seat, then squats to strap it down. Soldier drops his and heads for the cockpit. Steve is very aware of the distance between them as they pass.

When the door to the jet slides shut, Steve moves forward and takes the co-pilot’s seat. Soldier doesn't say anything, just uses his flesh hand to use a control display. Steve can’t focus on what he’s doing. He starts jiggling his leg.

“Stop it,” Soldier says calmly. “And put on your seat belt.”

“Are we gonna have a problem?” Steve finally snaps at him.

Soldier stops and turns his head, looking at him without Steve being able to see what his eyes are doing. He hates it.

“Are we?” Soldier asks.

“I’m running point on this,” Steve reminds him. “Can you handle that, _Soldier?”_

He spits the code name out coldly. He wants Soldier to be _positive_ about how he feels.

“I think I’ll be fine,” Soldier says. 

He finally looks away as he takes the controls. The jet starts moving and Steve stubbornly doesn’t put his seat belt on yet.

“The question is, will you?” Soldier adds.

Steve inhales sharply and decides to pretend he didn’t hear that. He’s on a mission. They’re going to the far north of Siberia to infiltrate and take down an AIM hub doing something nefarious with the Northern Lights. It’s petty and menial and he should not be on this mission with this partner.

“This can’t have been Fury’s idea,” Soldier says as they lift out of the Potomac. “Just so you know.”

“I think I could guess that,” Steve mutters.

Soldier doesn't answer that. Maybe Steve doesn’t remember him talking because he doesn’t talk. A boy can only dream.

In an hour, they’re cruising. Soldier turns on the auto pilot and gets up.

“Where are you going?” Steve calls, twisting to watch him.

Soldier heads to the back and pulls out a cot, then locks it in place. “I’m sleeping,” he says.

“It’s eleven o’clock,” Steve says, glancing at his watch.

Soldier gets into the cot, fully dressed, and lies back, crossing his ankles. Steve tells himself that he’s not disappointed that he doesn’t undress. 

“It’s a twenty hour flight,” Soldier says, tucking his hands under his head. “I’d rather sleep now than later.”

Steve twists back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest. He wants to start shaking his leg again. He doesn’t like the silence.

“I can feel you brooding,” Soldier announces.

“No, you can’t,” Steve snaps.

“I really can. Put something on to listen to if you’re so full’a energy.”

Steve almost glances behind him and stops himself. He pulls out his phone, but of course, he doesn’t have any signal. 

“There’s music on there,” Soldier adds. “It’s shit I like, if that matters. Put it on.”

Steve starts to lean forward and catches himself, hissing under his breath. He presses a palm between his eyes hard. 

“Stop telling me to do things,” he growls.

“I ain’t orderin’ you,” Soldier snaps.

Steve shoves forward and taps at the display until he finds a music note icon. It opens and he hits _Play all_ as quick as he can, just to hear something other than that grating, distorted voice.

A fuzzy, gentle piano tune starts. Steve stops, his finger hovering over the screen. A trumpet starts with the piano, a drum or a bass, he can’t tell because of the poor quality, and the tune continues.

“What the fuck,” he whispers.

The screen is telling him that _I Can’t Believe You’re In Love With Me_ by Billie Holiday is playing. Steve listens to the first part of the song in horror, then when the lyrics start, he slams his finger against the skip button. Next is Bessie Smith, and he skips that, and gets to Josephine Baker. He skips that, and then it’s Al Bowly. He skips _that,_ and comes back to Billie Holiday.

Steve turns it off.

“Thought a man’a your age would like classic jazz,” Soldier grumbles.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Steve demands.

“The fuck is wrong with me?” Soldier returns. “What, ‘cause I like jazz, somethin’ gotta be wrong with me?”

Steve scrolls through the library and _everything_ is something he recognizes. There’s barely twenty songs. Some of them are as old as 1923, not one older than ‘45.

“Do you have a fetish for terrible recording quality?” Steve demands.

“I like old jazz,” Soldier answers him firmly. “It feels familiar.”

Steve closes it. He can’t listen to any of those songs with the Soldier right behind him, telling him to do things, and him not remembering what the fuck about the man managed to get him to submit even if he hated him. And even worse, all of them, it seems, are songs he and Bucky used to dance to.

“Maybe _you_ ought’a be movin’ on,” Steve grumbles.

“Wish I fuckin’ could,” Soldier grumbles back, just as quiet.

Steve almost glances back again. He focuses forward and regrets that there’s no music saved on his phone. There’s silence in the jet.

Soldier either sleeps without his breathing changing, or he doesn’t sleep. Steve stays in the copilot’s chair, only because it’s too uncomfortable for him to sleep. He doesn’t like the idea of sleeping with Soldier nearby.

Hours later, Soldier gets up and returns to the pilot’s chair. Steve finally leaves his seat; his ass is numb thanks to it. He walks down the length of the jet and starts pacing, going through the maps they’d been given in his head.

Soldier doesn’t tell him to sit down or put his seat belt on, thank god. Steve isn’t sure what would happen if he tried another order; either he’d punch the asshole, or something worse. 

He might actually obey.

“Forty minutes,” Soldier announces at last.

Steve sits down. Immediately, his leg starts jiggling.

“Rogers,” Soldier growls.

Steve feels a full-body flash of _wrong_ and it’s not the way Soldier’s voice is distorted. He jumps back up and has to start pacing.

“If you’re going to drop –” Soldier starts.

“I’ll only fuckin’ drop because you keep growlin’ an’ orderin’ me around!” Steve snaps over his shoulder.

He turns and strides back, grabbing Soldier’s chair and yanking it around. Soldier turns with it, but doesn’t raise his masked face. Steve steps back and crosses his arms over his chest, glaring.

“If you didn’t know that I’m really –” he starts, then can’t say it. “You’re treating me like _your_ Sub! What the fuck is wrong with you!”

Soldier jumps out of his chair. Steve steps back quickly, almost startled by how fast and suddenly he looms over him. The black tint of the goggles betray nothing.

“ _You_ have to start hormone therapy,” Soldier growls. “When we land, you’re staying in the jet.”

Steve shoves forward and gets in Soldier’s face. “You are not running point on this mission,” he growls. “Stand _down.”_

“If you go out there with me, I’m compromised,” Soldier snaps.

“Handle it,” Steve demands.

“I am,” Soldier answers. “By telling you to stay on the jet. I don’t need your help and if you come, I’ll spend the whole fuckin’ time focusin’ on you.”

“Get over it!” Steve says.

Soldier jerks away with a low noise that the mask’s voice filter turns into an almost demonic growl; Steve feels a shiver go down his spine and it’s still not the right kind of wrong to be feeling about Soldier. Soldier turns away and starts clenching his fists. The metal arm whirs and plates readjust. Steve steps back.

“You hafta start hormone therapy,” the Soldier growls again. “As soon as we land in DC again. ‘Cause at this point, _I_ need fuckin’ hormones.”

Steve takes another step back. “What I do with my body’s my business,” he growls.

“Except when you drop an’ I’m the only one they can call!” Soldier shouts, spinning around. “It’s every two or three weeks now, Rogers! You might be able to wallow in your misery enough you don’t get affected, but I ain’t got the withdrawal to lean on to stop thinkin’ about you!”

Steve shakes his head.

“You stay on the fuckin’ jet,” Soldier growls. “An’ take the _fucking_ hormones!”

“You’re not my Dom,” Steve growls back.

Soldier strides forward and Steve steps back, but his back hits the wall. Soldier grabs his jaw and Steve actually sinks an inch, his chin lifting involuntarily.

“See that?” Soldier murmurs, the distortion making the words crackle softly. “This is why people alternate drop partners. It’s why people try an’ get _real_ partners!”   
  


Steve shakes his head. Soldier lowers his chin a hair, then his hand is at Steve’s throat. Steve slides farther down the wall as his knees shake, his chin lifting further.

“Stay on the plane,” Soldier growls.

Steve inhales, swallows, and lowers his chin.

“Let go of me,” he murmurs.

Soldier drops him and rears back. Steve presses against the wall, chin low.

“If you do that again,” he says carefully, “I’ll tear your throat out.”

Soldier doesn’t move. His mask gives him an unfair advantage. Steve keeps his face stoney.

“Clear your head,” he orders, “and remember your orders.”

“You can think about your bonded,” Soldier snaps. “I _can’t!”_

“I never asked you to come!” Steve snaps back. “Clear your head, soldier!”

Soldier jerks and storms across the jet. Steve drops into the co-pilot’s seat and crosses his arms. Soldier paces behind him, his footsteps loud and angry, and after five minutes, Steve realizes he’s been bouncing his leg and just listening to Soldier stomp. He hasn’t been thinking of anything at all. He forces himself to still, bites the inside of his cheek hard, and swallows a bit of blood.

“Why can’t you think about your bonded?” he asks without turning.

“‘Cause I don’t remember him,” Soldier snaps.

Steve turns his head slightly, looking out of the corner of his eye. Soldier stops pacing at the far end of the jet.

“Why?” Steve pushes.

Soldier sighs heavily. Angry, still. He resumes pacing. It should unsettle Steve, and while it does, it’s only because he wants to get up and help him. It should make him nervous. He should be afraid of Soldier. He isn’t in the slightest.

“You forget everything I tell you,” Soldier growls. “Retrograde amnesia. I don’t remember anything. I don’t know who I was, where I came from, don’t even know my name.”

Steve turns his chair slowly. Soldier stops, facing away.

“What happened?” Steve asks, his voice quiet now.

“Fury found me in a cryochamber in eighty-six,” Soldier says blankly to the floor. “I’d been psychologically broken, wiped, and programmed into a mindless assassin. Been that way at least twenty years by the time Fury found me. No idea when HYDRA found me, how, or where.”

“HYDRA,” Steve repeats, shocked.

“They’re gone,” Soldier adds quickly. “I snapped outta their mold pretty quick, took ‘em all out. But they did a damn good job of making sure I couldn’t think of who I had to go home to.”

Soldier turns abruptly and heads back to his chair. Steve spins his own as Soldier approaches and stops, facing him. Soldier checks his instruments, then takes the jet off auto-pilot and takes the controls.

“I never asked you to be my drop partner,” Steve says under his breath.

“I know you didn’t,” Soldier snaps. “But SHIELD has policies –”

“They didn’t have to call you!” Steve answers loudly.

“They do!” Soldier retorts. “When an agent drops and requires an emergency partner, they can only be helped by a partner of equal rank – Designationally and clearance wise!”

Steve looks away and clenches his jaw.

“There’s probably only a couple of Doms that can assist you,” Soldier adds. “But you’d break all of them before they could do you any good.”

“I don’t break you,” Steve mutters. “I’m not that strong when I drop.”

“No, you are,” Soldier insists. “I’m just as enhanced as you are.”  
  


Steve glances sideways at him. Soldier’s distorted voice betrays no emotion, but the veins in his neck, the bits that are visible above his uniform, stand out.

“Oh,” Steve says quietly.

“So they can’t call anyone other than me,” Soldier continues. “Which means that at this point, it’s hard for me to not think of you as mine.”

Steve sucks in a breath and looks away quickly. He hadn't thought of that. He does think about it for a half second, about Soldier pushing him against the wall and taking his throat, and his gut twists excitedly. Then he shoves it away and decides he can’t think about that.

“So you should stay on the jet,” Soldier concludes quietly.

“I can’t,” Steve counters firmly. “I need to go with you. You can’t do it alone. You’re going to just have to control yourself.”

Soldier doesn’t answer that. Steve looks out the windshield and focuses on the plan. He can’t think of Soldier wanting him. No one could claim him after Bucky. That was what he promised.

“Ready to take us down,” Soldier reports in an empty, emotionless voice.

“Go,” Steve orders.

It feels as wrong as giving Bucky directions in the war had been.

Soldier takes the jet down. They land quietly, but a blizzard is forming around them. The AIM hub is two miles north-east, but it’s two PM by the current time zone. They have to wait until nightfall to breach the station.

They have to sit there until dusk, which won’t be for almost eight hours. Steve hasn’t slept since they left DC. He doesn’t like the idea of sitting in silence doing nothing for another eight hours, but he doesn’t like the thought of sleeping either.

“There’s only one cot,” Soldier breaks the silence.

Steve twists around and looks at the fold-out bunk behind them. He scans the opposite wall, but Soldier’s right. There’s only one.

“You need to recharge,” Soldier continues. “Get some shut-eye.”

Steve twists back and glares at him. Soldier looks dead ahead.

“Sir,” he adds emotionlessly.

Steve shudders with wrongness and gets up. He crosses to the bunk, sits down, and lays on his side facing the wall. 

The bed smells like absolutely nothing. Both of them are on scent-blockers. Steve shuts his eyes and tries to quiet his mind.

At best, he dozes. At worst, he lies there listening to the stillness. Soldier doesn’t talk. He doesn’t put on the music. They do nothing.

“Sun’s setting,” Soldier finally announces.

Steve gets up and starts getting on his cold-weather gear. From the look outside the jet, it’s still snowing. Soldier gets up and joins him. They dress in a silence as frosty as the weather outside. Steve puts on tactical goggles that will help him see through the blizzard, but Soldier doesn’t have any. Maybe the goggles in his mask already give him the function. Steve cycles through night-vision, motion sensing, and bright light-filter, ending on thermal vision.

The Soldier is a bright red spark amongst the cold confines of the jet. Steve cycles back to night-vision.

“After you, Captain,” Soldier says.

Steve doesn’t reply. He lowers the gangplank and heads into the blizzard.

*

Soldier keeps thinking that this is a terrible idea. The march across the tundra is bad enough. He and Rogers are tied together with heavy nylon ropes and massive carabiners. Rogers leads the way, a tiny handheld GPS beeping over both of their earpieces, which will only work if he and Rogers remain within thirty feet of each other. This mission didn’t need a sniper, some bureaucrats thought they’d be able to save time and money if they sent two highly enhanced agents to do a job that five regular operatives could handle just as quickly. Soldier could do it by himself. Rogers should still be in the jet, waiting patiently like a good boy for Daddy get back –

He keeps falling along that train of thought and having to jerk away. It’s difficult to focus on the mission when they’re just walking.

The sun quickly sets and it gets dark. They reach the station and take cover amongst snow-laden deciduous trees fifty-yards off. The Northern lights are forming and a massive satellite dish is starting to move.

“In and out,” Rogers says over their comm-line.

Soldier doesn’t say a word. He has to focus.

Rogers goes first and Soldier follows. They move between the trees, connected by five feet of rope that doesn’t let Soldier put any distance between himself and his – _Rogers._

The first line of defense is a series of automatic turrets. Soldier has his rifle out already. They pause for a second, he takes aim, and Rogers lifts his shield. Soldier fires the second Rogers throws the shield. He takes out one turret, the shield bounces off another and hits a third before spinning back to them with freaky accuracy. Rogers catches it and they move east. Soldier shoots down a camera, Rogers takes out another turret, then they find the entrance. 

The doors to the station fly open and AIM guards in full parkas stream out. Soldier pulls Rogers behind a stubby bush and the blizzard does the rest. The guards fan out, each individual unconnected, and when they’re gone, Rogers gets up. Soldier follows him without a word.

They enter the station and Soldier has to help Rogers pull the door shut; the wind is fighting them. They get them sealed and the roaring of the wind dies, revealing the station is noisy, people speaking to each other in Russian, instruments beeping, and some kind of Slavic pop song playing. Rogers pulls the scarf off his face and pushes back his goggles, then looks at Soldier and motions down the hallway. Soldier releases the line between them and brings his rifle up. Rogers takes the front, shield at the ready. They head in.

A guard turns the corner and Soldier fires; the silencer takes the bite out of the sound and the guard drops onto their back. Rogers proceeds to the corner, braces, and both of them turn at the same time ready and waiting. Two more guards run into the next corridor and Soldier shoots them both. Rogers peeks into the room they came out of, then throws his shield. Inside, more than one person shouts in pain. Soldier crosses rapidly, shoots every individual he sees, and gets covered again. Rogers peers inside.

“Clear,” he says.

Soldier falls behind Rogers again. Rogers storms on, recovers his shield, and knocks out a guy in a lab coat who’s groaning. He heads to a computer, plugs in a USB, and starts downloading things. Soldier stands in the doorway and keeps watch.

“Got it,” Rogers calls.

Soldier glances over his shoulder as Rogers steps away from the computer. Soldier then spots movement in the corner of his eye, he jerks his rifle up in time to see a hidden panel slide open and the muzzle of a gun stick out. He fires, but at the same time, Rogers shouts and hits the ground. Soldier runs in and shoots into the hidden passageway again, taking out the guard inside, then goes running around the room knocking on the walls to see if there’s any other hollow points. Rogers is on the ground still, but Soldier can’t help him until he’s determined that they’re covered. 

He finds one more secret panel and opens it, finds no one there, then blocks it with a heavy filing cabinet. At last, he rushes to Rogers' side and drops next to him. Rogers is clamping down on his thigh, but there’s a pool of blood formed around him. There's a lot of blood already and the pool is rapidly growing.

“It went through,” Rogers hisses; his face is white.

Soldier moves quickly, sliding his pack off his back and pulling out first aid supplies. He gives Rogers a rag to bite and tries to pretend that this is no one special. Rogers is losing blood too quickly and if the bullet passed through, then the exit and entrance both are letting his blood go everywhere. At least three pints are already on the floor, maybe more without considering what soaked into his suit, and that doesn’t leave Rogers with much. Soldier cuts through Rogers’ snow suit pants and his tac gear under that to get to his skin, then fires a small lighter and watches the dial on it shoot up as it heats. 

“Do you have to?” Rogers growls at him.

Soldier nods and uses two fingers to pull away the fabric. Rogers drops back onto his back and bites down on the rag. Soldier shuts off the flame, then quickly and carefully touches the hot metal to gaping exit wound. Rogers shouts around the rag, but the wound is cauterized. Soldier pushes his knee up, cuts his pants in the back, and cauterizes the entrance. Rogers swears through the rag, but it’s done. Soldier paints the entrance wound with iodine, then puts his leg down. Rogers is still tense. 

“Relax,” Soldier orders.

Rogers drops his knee, now panting. Soldier paints the exit wound, then just wraps his leg with gauze; they don’t have time for anything else. Blood appears on the gauze quickly, but it doesn’t start to spread and after several layers, it stops seeping through; a good sign. He uses up a whole roll, then starts another.

“It’ll heal in an hour,” Rogers spits out.

“It’ll get frostbite before that,” Soldier answers. “Be quiet and obey.”

“You can’t fucking do that,” Rogers snaps.

“Don’t,” Soldier growls back, unashamed of the threat of command in his voice. “Obey.”

Rogers’ eyes go big and he swallows visibly. Soldier stares him down. A beat passes, then Rogers just pulls his other knee up and grabs it. Soldier tapes the gauze heavily; the cold can’t get to his skin, or it’ll be much worse before Soldier can cut him out of his pants and properly treat it.

Soldier won’t think about that yet. He can't. 

Instead, he grabs Rogers by the jaw and pulls his face up. Rogers moves for him and looks hazily at him. He's pale and the dark circles under his eyes stand out.

"I'm taking point," Soldier demands. "You're going to obey me and not argue. If you fight now, it'll put both of us in danger. Do you understand?"

Rogers' eyes search his for a second. Then he swallows and nods.

Soldier nods back and for a second, he thinks he can just lean forward and kiss Rogers on the forehead. Steve needs it. He does start to move, and has to stop himself. He can't, the mask is in the way for one. And he can't kiss Rogers. It would be inappropriate. Or ill-timed. Even if his Stevie needs it.

Soldier boxes up thoughts of what Stevie needs or deserves and focuses on getting Rogers to his feet. They have to get out of the station, out of range of the remaining AIM operatives, and back to the jet. Rogers sways when he stands and grabs his stomach. Soldier goes to support him and Rogers hastily covers his mouth instead.

"Are you nauseous?" Soldier demands. 

Rogers nods. Soldier grabs the shield and straps it to Rogers back for him, then pushes him to a chair and makes him sit. 

"Wait here," he orders, then gives him a pistol. "Shoot anyone that isn't me."

"Yessir," Rogers mumbles. 

Soldier grabs his rifle and leaves the room. He sweeps the compound and finds it empty, so he returns to the entrance and sets a trap; he puts a wire across the door, ties it to a claymore, and tapes the claymore to the ground flush against the door. Then he backs off around the corner, holds his rifle at the ready, and waits.

Five minutes later, the mine blows. Soldier jerks around the corner and starts shooting. There are three bodies on the ground already, the result of his tripwire, and he shoots down four more guards before they can draw their own weapons. Soldier makes his way out, switches his goggles to thermal, and prowls the perimeter of the station.

He spots one more guard and takes them out. He completes the perimeter and has to assume there's no one left. He goes back inside, putting his goggles back to normal vision, and stores his rifle on his back.

"At ease, Steve," he calls as he turns the corner. 

Rogers drops the pistol. He's even paler and there's a puddle of vomit slowly seeping towards the blood.

"Jesus, you're gone," Soldier hisses to himself. "Okay, sweetheart, you're okay."

Rogers nods shortly and hands the gun back. Soldier puts it away, then gathers up the first aid supplies and puts them away. The blood on the floor is clotting and will soon dry, but he doesn’t like the idea of such a large sample of Rogers’ blood being left behind for AIM to collect. He straps his pack back to his back, then takes out a block of C-4 and heads back into the entryway with it. The snow is blowing everywhere, but Soldier clears a spot at the corner and tapes a few blocks of C-4 to the floor, rigs a quick detonation device, then goes back into the other room and tapes more down. He can’t fashion a remote to trigger it, so he can only set a timer; he picks 50 minutes and just hopes he and Rogers can get far enough away before it goes off, but no one will enter the compound before then and dismantle his haphazard bombs.

Rogers watches him and doesn’t say anything. Soldier syncs the two timers and his watch, then takes Rogers by the arm, pulls him up, and stoops to put an arm between his legs and grip his thigh. He gets Rogers onto his shoulders in one move and starts going.

"Can walk," Rogers says dazedly.

"Not really," Soldier answers him. "Not with that much blood gone and dehydrated. If you stress the wound before it heals, you’ll just make it worse."

"Dehydrated?" Rogers mumbles.

"You threw up," Soldier reminds him. "Cover your face, we're going back into the storm."

Rogers fumbles with his scarf and mask. Soldier adjusts his weight, then turns the corner to the blasted entrance. 

"Oh," Rogers says. "Tha's what was noisy."

Soldier doesn't answer that. He switches his goggles to night-vision, gets out his GPS, heading south-west, and starts walking. He holds onto Rogers arm with one hand and starts dropping the rope with the other. 

"We'll get back soon," he calls to Rogers. "Stay awake."

"Tired," Rogers answers. 

"Stay awake," Soldier orders. "Talk to me. If you stop talking, I'll punish you when we get back to the jet."

"Can't punish me," Rogers says. His voice is getting quieter, more relaxed. "Not Bucky."

"Doesn't matter," Soldier says without having to ask who Bucky is. "You talk or I'll take my belt to your ass."

Rogers whimpers. 

"Talk," Soldier demands.

"I like you," Rogers blurts. "I could obey you. That scares me."

Soldier has to focus on planting his feet because the wind is threatening to knock him down. He should be surprised. He isn't.

"I feel the same," he admits. "It takes a lot to remind myself that you're not mine."

"I should be," Rogers says. "I want to be! Why am I not?"

"You're still in withdrawal," Soldier tells him. “You’re mourning.”

“But I was getting better,” Rogers answers. “‘Fore you. Was gettin’ better…”

Soldier’s heart grips. It’s possible Rogers’ feelings for the Dom he lost have been deferred to Soldier, especially after everything they’ve done together. He readjusts Rogers on his shoulders, checks the GPS, and stows it back in a pocket of his vest so he can grab onto Rogers’ arm and secure him. He’s scared, too.

“Don’t even know your name,” Rogers continues. “Never seen your face.”

“Nobody has,” Soldier admits.

“I wanna,” Rogers tells him. “An’ – An’ I wanna be a good boy, I do, I jus’ – I don’ wanna forget Bucky…”

His voice cracks. Soldier glances sideways at Rogers’ leg, but there’s no dark spot on the tape. That doesn’t mean he isn’t still bleeding, though.

His watch beeps. Soldier checks it and they have two minutes until the blast. He puts Rogers down, takes his shield then starts digging out the snow.

“What’re you doing?” Rogers repeats.

“Blowing up the station,” Soldier tells him.

He compacts a bank and puts Rogers against it, then kneels and covers them with the shield. He has no idea how far they’ve made it, but this will have to do. His watch beeps again, they have sixty seconds.

“What’s goin’ on?” Rogers asks.

Soldier covers Rogers with his body. Rogers whines like he does when they’re in the drop room and Soldier forces himself not to hear it over the wind. He checks his watch and watches it drop from twenty seconds, to ten, to five. Soldier braces them both, then his watch beeps as it hits zero. Soldier breathes in, then out in the tundra, the C-4 goes off. The shockwave hits them and almost knocks Soldier back. Rogers shouts and covers his ears with his gloves. Soldier holds the shield directly above them and prays the shrapnel won’t hit them.

“Ow,” Rogers mutters.

Soldier waits a minute, but nothing hits them. He gets the shield back on Rogers back, then picks him up again, sets his feet, and starts walking again. 

“Talk to me,” Soldier demands again.

“I’m tired,” Rogers says weakly.

“Stay awake,” Soldier snaps.

“No, tired’a stuff,” Rogers answers. “Shit.”

“What shit?” Soldier asks, trying to focus on moving as fast as he can and keeping Rogers from passing out. 

“SHIELD,” Rogers sighs. “Stupid missions like this. I joined the Army t’a make a difference!”

“What kinda difference?” Soldier encourages, hoping Rogers will keep talking about that and not about how he wants to belong to Soldier now.

“‘Cause Nazis was killin’ people!” Rogers says. “My Bucky’s family was dyin’! An’ wasn’ jus’ the Jews, his Roma family, too! Well, I think only a coupl’a his direct cousins was caught, don’ know if much’a his pa’s family was still in Europe…”

“Tell me about him,” Soldier asks. “He was Jewish? And, what, Romani?”

“Uh-huh,” Rogers mumbles.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Soldier demands.

“Not gonna,” Rogers says. “Be easy. My head feels weird, hurts.”

Soldier curses under his breath and stops where they are. He bends and puts Rogers back on his feet.

“Huh?” Rogers says.

Soldier turns around and squats. “On my back,” he orders.

“Oh,” Rogers answers.

Rogers wraps his arms around Soldier’s neck and leans on him. He picks up one knee and Soldier grabs it, then stands. Rogers grunts as he lifts his injured leg, but Soldier quickly gets him situated so most of his weight is on his side, and he can hold onto Rogers’ left leg close to his hip and away from where the bullet hit him. Rogers puts his face against Soldier’s neck and sighs.

Soldier resumes walking. “Keep talking. Your Dom was Jewish and Roma.”

“Mmhmm,” Rogers hums. “Looked beautiful. God, he’s so pretty. Was.”

“What was he like?” Soldier asks.

“Sweet,” Rogers mumbles. “Bes’ daddy in the world. When my ma died, he moved in our place an’ took care’a me. He worked a lot ‘cause I couldn’t really keep a job. People di’n’t like me ‘cause I’m an Omega, Irish, sick, everything. Nobody wan’ed t’a hire me. He didn’t mind. I did.”

“Then you were home a lot,” Soldier blurts. “You could stay home and be a good house Omega.”

Rogers hums again. Soldier pauses to check the GPS, has to lean forward so he can let go of Rogers’ right knee to grab it, but he’s still heading in the right direction. He adjusts Rogers, then starts again.

“You were a house-Omega,” he says.

Rogers only hums.

“Stevie, talk to me,” Soldier demands. “You want the belt?”

“Uh-uh,” Rogers mumbles.

“Talk,” Soldier reminds him.

“Uh,” Rogers sighs. “Wha’ was I sayin’?”

“Your Daddy worked and you didn’t,” Soldier says.

“I wan’ed to!” Rogers answers hotly. “I tried, people wouldn’t hire me! ‘Cause I was small an’ Irish an’ an Omega –”

“Small?” Soldier cuts him off.

“Yeah,” Rogers says. “Di’n’t you know? I was five two ‘fore the serum. Had a bent spine, otherwise I would’a been five six.”

He laughs at that. Soldier’s heart grips tighter in his chest and suddenly he wants to know what Rogers actually looked like before the serum. Then just as suddenly, he thinks that he doesn’t want to. It might only worsen Rogers’ intrusion in his mind where the boy he’d once owned was supposed to be. He doesn’t know what his boy looked like beyond vague fancies; thin, short, blonde, blue eyes, freckles, and crooked teeth. If Rogers was small, it should only confuse him. 

But then… Rogers’ upper incisors were a little crooked. They stuck out in opposing directions and there was a small gap between them. Just like how Soldier could picture his boy. Rogers had a few freckles across his cheeks that you could only see if you looked close enough. His eyes were a bright, clear shade of blue. And once upon a time, he’d been short.

One could say that he would have fit Soldier’s vague memories of his Submissive.

“Wa’d’n’t my fault people was stupid,” Rogers says. “Worked where I could. We was poor, couldn’t afford t’a stay home an’ be Daddy’s house pet.”

“Did you want to?” Soldier asks, carefully controlling his tone.

Rogers hums absently, indecisively. Soldier thinks he might’ve already known that. Then he insists that it would’ve been easy to guess.

“Tell me about –” he starts, trying to think of something that will steer away from what Rogers was like before the serum. “Tell me about where you grew up.”

“New York,” Rogers sighs. “Brooklyn! An’ the queer quarter,” he adds with a giggle.

“What was it like?” Soldier presses.

Rogers sighs again. Soldier pauses to adjust him. Rogers nuzzles him after and Soldier tries to ignore a stab of satisfied pride.

“Lived in the Irish part, growin’ up,” Rogers mumbles. “Couldn’t go nowhere else, ‘course. But after my ma’s lease wen’ up, me an’ Bucky moved t’a another part’a town, cheaper. That was the queer part. Used t’a go t’a a queer bar least once a month, go dancin’...”

Soldier can imagine it. Steve in a dress, something inherited from his mother; not because Steve was in drag particularly, but because that was just how all Omegas dressed back then. He knows what drag is now, that wouldn’t’ve been the same thing for male Omegas back in the 30s. But he knows that’s the case because of reading back on how things were in the 20th century, not because he remembers it. Steve and – and his Dom, Bucky, would’ve done mostly slow dances because Steve wouldn’t’ve been able to keep up with the faster songs. He got winded easily because of his asthma and heart problems. Which Soldier knows because he’s aware of Captain America’s legendary transformation. The two of them would get close and Steve would put his chin on his Dom’s chest and smile up at him, pleased as could be with that pretty blush highlighting his cheeks and the faintest freckles across his cheeks under his eyes that only got bright in the summer. The best nights would’ve been the ones that he – _Bucky_ could afford good alcohol, so Steve could get tipsy and giggly while they were still in the bar.

“Liked dancin’ with my daddy,” Steve mumbles into Soldier’s neck. “I’d like dancin’ with you.”

“I don’t think so,” Soldier answers carefully. “I’m not much of a dancer.”

He’s lying. He puts on old jazz from the 20s or the 30s at his apartment all the time and swings Alpine around the room until the cat gets fed up with him and jumps out of his arms. Steve wouldn’t jump out of his arms. But Soldier’s just thinking wistfully, so it doesn’t matter. He’s thinking too much about Rogers and he’s confusing himself. It doesn’t matter.

“Should say,” Steve exhales. “Leg doesn’t hurt too bad. Prolly healed by now.”

“I’d rather not risk anything,” Soldier insists, because even Captain America can’t make up three or four pints of blood this quickly. “Keep talking.”

Steve sighs heavily. “I wen’ to an all-Omega Catholic school,” he says. “I hated it.”

“Tell me about it,” Soldier encourages.

Rogers talks about Catholic school for a while, before he switches to talking about art school, where he apparently joined the American Communist party, the artists he met through the Communist party, then art in general. Soldier doesn’t listen too intently, just says _right_ and _uh-huh_ and _What else?_ whenever Rogers pauses and Rogers continues to ramble on and on.

Soldier checks the GPS often, maintains their course, but it still takes over two hours to reach the jet. Rogers is running out of things to say by then, it seems, or he’s slipping even closer towards unconsciousness. He might claim that his leg doesn’t hurt, but Soldier worries that he doesn’t hurt because he’s gone into shock. The blizzard doesn’t help.

Soldier huffs into the jet and immediately puts Rogers onto the cot. He shuts the gangplank behind them, drops their gear, and hurries to the controls to get the heaters working. It’s too cold to go cutting open Rogers’ uniform yet. Rogers sits up and pulls his shield off before Soldier can move to help him.

“Tell me how you feel,” he demands.

“Like I got shot,” Rogers slurs.

Soldier checks Rogers pulse and curses under his breath; it’s too slow, he’s too cold or he’s lost too much blood. Soldier sheds his outer layers rapidly, then gets a knife and cuts Rogers out of his, leaving the taped portion on his leg where it is.

“Ought’a buy me dinner first,” Rogers mumbles as Soldier gets him out of the snow-suit.

Soldier doesn’t answer that. He gets a heavy blanket and climbs onto the cot behind Rogers, wraps them both in the blanket, and pulls him down against his chest. Rogers twists around to face him and noses against Soldier’s neck. Soldier lifts his chin and lets him. He doesn’t wonder about his boy, about how he’d’ve wanted to be against his scent glands at all times so he’d feel claimed. Rogers purrs and nuzzles where Soldier’s scent gland is; his face is freezing.

“Careful,” Soldier grits out.

Rogers doesn’t seem to hear him. The jet is warming up quickly and Soldier takes Rogers’ pulse. It’s picking up, but he’s still too cold.

“What if I wanna be yours?” Rogers mumbles. “Maybe I feel so shitty af’er I drop ‘cause I miss you. Not jus’ Bucky…”

“Let’s not talk about that now,” Soldier tries to tell him. “You’re not thinking straight.”

“Thinking gay,” Rogers snorts.

Soldier feels Rogers forehead and he’s warming up. He pushes up and climbs carefully off the cot, but Rogers whines and grabs at him.

“I need to take care of your leg,” Soldier insists.

“Huh?” Rogers just counters. “Hold me!”

Soldier gets his first aid things out of his pack, then yanks open the medical cabinet on the jet. Something in the cockpit starts beeping and Soldier has to run over and check it. The long range sensors are picking up vehicles approaching. Soldier swears and runs back to strap Rogers down to the cot.

“I don’ wanna!” Rogers complains. “I’m cold!”

Soldier covers him with the blanket. “Stay still or you’ll get the belt,” he threatens. “We gotta get outta here.”

“You’re bein’ mean,” Rogers calls after him as he runs back to the front of the jet. “Hold me, I don’ feel good!”

Soldier drops into the pilot’s seat and starts getting the jet in the air. His sensors tell him the vehicles are coming from the south, probably heading for the AIM station, but even if they don’t know they’re there, Soldier doesn’t want to be on the ground any longer.

“My head hurts!” Rogers calls out.

“Gimme a second,” Soldier answers.

He grabs the controls and carefully brings the jet off the ground. A warning goes off; the wind buffets them west and Soldier has to grab onto the controls hard to keep from being knocked sideways. He lifts the landing gear and takes them slowly up, but the wind is carrying them rapidly sideways. Soldier grits his teeth, he switches the jet to manual control and puts power in the forward stabilizing thrusters, then turns their back to the wind. Immediately, the wind picks them up and with the help of the thrusters, the jet shoots off the ground to the west. Soldier slams against his seat and puts power to the thrusters in the rear, going forward and up.

The jet rises rapidly. Rogers groans behind him and Soldier has to ignore him for the moment. The rapid change in altitude puts pressure on his inner ears and he just starts working his jaw as he gets the terrain-following radar directing him over the tundra. Normally he’d want to get over the blizzard and out of the winds knocking them around, but if the AIM station had backup coming, that backup will be looking for them at any moment. The blizzard will help mask their signature and keeping close to the earth will disguise them from radar.

“Daddy!” Rogers calls, his voice pained.

Soldier doesn’t want to think that Rogers is calling him, he doesn’t want to think about that at all; he can’t. The wind hits them in the side suddenly and Soldier has to jerk the controls to keep from being knocked out of the air. He hears Rogers shout and objects moving around, but a quick glance behind him assures him that Rogers is still strapped to the cot.

“Might be sick!” Rogers shouts.

“Just try to get it on the floor,” Soldier answers him, resigned.

Soldier checks his instruments and pulls up again. They’re crossing ground rapidly, but not as quickly as he would like with the winds making it hard for him to keep the jet steady. The vehicles the long-range sensors identified are out of range now; hopefully, that means they’re still going to the station and haven’t discovered the carnage yet.

“Daddy!” Rogers shouts again.

“Hang on!” Soldier snaps over his shoulder.

He hears Rogers make an upset noise and has to grind his teeth against the urge to give up and go help him. He can’t do anything yet. The winds hit them again, shaking the jet, then Soldier hears Rogers groaning. 

“We’ll be far enough away in just a minute,” he calls. “Just a minute, alright?”

The winds shake them one more time and Soldier hears retching. He steels himself against the sound. He glances back and sees Rogers leaning over the edge of the cot, just dry-heaving for the moment. Soldier faces forward again and checks their distance to the station; they’ve made it 300 miles, not enough.

“Ow,” Rogers calls again.

Soldier glances back at him one more time and he’s just slumped towards the edge of the cot, looking pale. Soldier checks the radar again, then starts ascending again. The winds are dying, hopefully that means they’re making it past the storm. As soon as they’re out of Russian airspace, he’ll bring them to 36,000 feet and turn on the autopilot.

Rogers groans behind him, then retches and Soldier hears liquid splattering. He grimaces and reaches up to turn on his mask’s air filter so the smell won’t make him nauseous. 

“Hang in there, sweetheart,” he calls.

Rogers retches again, then groans and falls silent. Soldier brings the jet up to avoid a rise in the topography, then guides it back down beyond it. The winds die out in the next minute and the ride smoothes out some.

“Smells,” Rogers says.

“Yeah, I’ll clean it up in a minute,” Soldier promises him. “I’m sorry, I gotta get us out of Russia before I can help you.”

“Okay,” Rogers answers, sighing. “I’m healing some. Dizzy still.”

“I’m sorry,” Soldier repeats. “Got another seven hundred miles, honey, we’ll be out before you know it.”

“Don’ call me that,” Rogers says faintly.

Soldier grimaces and doesn’t answer that. He drops altitude a little bit, following the topographical radar. Rogers doesn’t make anymore noise and with the blizzard behind them, they’re flying smoothly.

It takes another half hour to get over the ocean and into neutral air. Soldier turns the flight controls to automatic, then engages auto-pilot and starts the jet climbing at a slight incline. He gets up and turns back to the cabin. There’s a thin puddle of vomit by the cot, which has spread out across half the floor. Rogers lifts his head, then drops it and grunts in his direction as Soldier moves to the back, where he gets a package of absorbent pads and disinfectant wipes. Soldier cleans up the floor, shoving the soaked pads into a trash bin near the medical cabinet, then goes to deal with Rogers’ leg.

“It’s fine,” Rogers grumbles.

“I’m checking it,” Soldier insists.

He uses safety scissors to cut through the tape and gauze. He pulls it all off, then the section of snow gear left behind, and cuts Rogers’ pants open a bit more to see his wound. The bullet hole has scabbed over, even at the entrance when Soldier picks Rogers’ knee up to check.

“Told you,” Rogers mutters.

Soldier just gets a blood pressure cuff. He cuts Rogers’ right sleeve off, then straps the cuff onto him and starts the automatic machine. Rogers grimaces as it inflates, then exhales heavily as it releases.

“Numbers aren’t great,” Soldier says. “You’re not making up the blood you lost, so it’s low.”

“I’ll live,” Rogers replies. “I’m not unconscious, at least.”

Soldier puts away the blood pressure machine and gets out water bottles.

“Can you let me out of this?” Rogers calls. “I’m not about to go bleeding out everywhere anymore.”

“Yeah,” Soldier says, turning back. “I want you to drink some water.”

“Stop it!” Rogers snaps abruptly.

Soldier stops, standing five feet from the cot.

“Let me out,” Rogers demands. “And _stop_ telling me to do things. _Stop._ ”

Soldier steps forward and releases the straps across his torso. Rogers starts to sit up, but Soldier grabs his shoulders and pushes him back.

“You should stay lying down,” he says.

“I need to move,” Rogers snaps.

“No, you need to stay still,” Soldier insists. “You lost at least three pints of blood and even your body will take time to compensate. If you exert yourself, you could go into shock again and fall into a coma.”

“I need to move!” Rogers growls at him. 

Soldier puts both hands on Rogers shoulders and leans over him. Rogers clenches his jaw and looks away, but Soldier grabs his chin and forces him to look again. His pupils are dilating.

“You’re dropping,” Soldier guesses.

“I need to _move,_ ” Rogers hisses.

“You need to listen to me,” Soldier growls at him.

Rogers squeezes his eyes shut, inhaling sharply. Soldier grabs the side of the cot and tips it up so Rogers is sitting up, then opens a water bottle and puts it at Rogers’ mouth.

“Drink,” he orders.

Rogers opens his mouth, then hisses and shuts it, twisting away. Soldier growls again, a low warning, and Rogers whimpers in answer. He opens his mouth again and Soldier holds the bottle steady for him, tipping it slowly, so Rogers can drink.

Soldier holds the bottle for Rogers until it’s empty. Rogers drops his head back and groans as Soldier throws the bottle away.

“Fuck,” Rogers whispers, jerking his uninjured leg up against the straps. “Fuck, I need – I need to move –”

Soldier moves back to his side, pulling off the glove on his right hand, and touches his forehead. Rogers hisses like he’s in pain, but pushes his head back like he’s arching into the touch.

“It’s alright,” Soldier says softly. “You can relax, I’ll take care of you.”

“I don’t want it,” Rogers says through his teeth.

Soldier tries not to feel the stab in his gut. He starts brushing through Rogers’ hair, gently using his nails to put pressure on his scalp. Rogers exhales sharply.

“Don’t,” he says harshly. “Stop.”

Soldier pulls his hand away hesitantly. “I’m just trying to help –”

“I don’t want you!” Rogers snaps at him. “Will you just fucking listen to me for once, I don’t want you!”

Soldier steps back.

“I never wanted you!” Rogers continues in a snarl. “Just leave me alone!”

“Right,” Soldier answers, focusing on maintaining calm. “But when we get back to DC, SHIELD will require that someone assist you in your drop. And you already know they won’t call anyone else.”

“So don’t take me back to SHIELD!” Rogers snaps. “Easy!”

Soldier shakes his head and strides off, dropping back into his seat. Rogers lets out another hissing noise of pain behind him and Soldier flexes his hands on his thighs to keep himself in place.

“You made me talk,” Rogers says. “What did I say?”

“You told me about Brooklyn,” Soldier answers numbly. “And your Dom.”

Rogers makes an angry noise. Soldier forces himself to not turn around.

“That’s private,” Rogers growls. “If you tell anyone –”

“You think I’m gonna rat on you?” Soldier demands, jerking around to look at him. “Rogers, I already knew half the shit ‘cause’a what you say when you’re crashing! If I ain’t gone spreadin’ your business once in the past fuckin’ _year,_ you really think I’m gonna start now?”

“I don’t know what I’ve said when you’re with me!” Rogers snaps back. “I never remember what happens!”

“I can tell,” Soldier growls, turning around again.

Rogers makes another sharp, angry noise. Soldier flexes his fists again and clenches his jaw.

“I hate you,” Rogers says abruptly.

“I know,” Soldier growls again.

“I do!” Rogers snaps. “You and SHIELD, you take advantage of me bein’ weak –”

“I don’t take advantage of you!” Soldier cuts him off, jumping up in shock. “I would _never_ try anything sexual with you like that _,_ I only hold you so you feel safe while you cry it out, I would _never –!”_

“That!” Rogers snarls. “That’s enough!”

Soldier jerks back, feeling cold all over. He clenches his jaw and his fists, breathing hard. 

“I hate you,” Rogers repeats harshly.

“I get it!” Solder growls. “I’ll leave you at your apartment in DC, alright! But we have another eighteen hours until then, so – so please –”

“What?” Rogers demands.

“Don’t be cruel,” Soldier says quietly.

Rogers scoffs. Soldier sits down at the controls again and runs a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply. He can feel shitty later. He takes another deep breath, then clenches and releases his fists intentionally three times. He exhales, clenches and releases his fists three times, inhales, and repeats. After four breaths, he starts to shut down his emotions.

Then Rogers whimpers quietly behind him.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a completely different tone. “I didn’t – I didn’t mean it. Please don’t be mad at me.”

Soldier shuts his eyes and counts to five. “I’m not mad at you,” he answers, eyes still shut.

“I’m sorry,” Rogers repeats, whining. “I wanna be good, please?”

“You are,” Soldier says automatically.

“Forgive me?” Rogers asks.

Soldier inhales carefully. He’s not sure he can take 18 hours of mood swings like this. 

“I forgive you,” he calls. “Why don’t you get some sleep? You’ll probably feel better when you wake up.”

“Will you hold me?” Rogers replies.

Soldier sits there for a moment, thinking. Rogers might change his mind again in fifteen minutes and accuse him of taking advantage of him. Or he might get worse and start crying. There’s no denying that he _wants_ to be with Steve, to hold him, even coax him into floating instead of dropping. But there’s no guarantee that Rogers is only asking because he’s compelled to and Soldier is just the only choice.

“Go to sleep,” Soldier says firmly. “I have to stay up here.”

Rogers whimpers. Soldier takes the jet off auto-pilot and grabs the controls, focusing on flying now.

“Please, Daddy?” Rogers calls. “I’ll be a good boy, I promise!”

“So go to sleep,” Soldier tells him.

Rogers whines. He starts to really cry and Soldier forces himself to ignore it. It’s fucking difficult. 

After twenty minutes, Rogers seems to have cried himself to sleep. Soldier has gone numb. He’s objectively aware that once he leaves Rogers in DC, he’s probably going to drop as well, but for the time being, he’s shut down.

Perks of brainwashing.

Dissociated, Soldier doesn’t feel time passing. Rogers wakes up every few hours, calls for Daddy to hold him, then cries himself to sleep again. 

They arrive in DC again close to dawn. They’re ahead of schedule. Soldier lands at SHIELD headquarters, then gets out of his seat and moves to release Rogers from the cot. Rogers groans as he wakes up again, then as Soldier helps him sit up, he whimpers and lurches to wrap his arms around him. Soldier picks him up, lifts him off the bench, and puts him on his feet. He wraps him in the emergency blanket so no one will see the cut-up state of his uniform or his leg wound. Rogers huddles close to him and Soldier just takes him off the jet.

There are SHIELD engineers moving to the jet already, but Soldier marches Rogers directly out of the hangar. He heads for the garage, pulling Rogers along by his waist.

“Where are we goin’?” Rogers asks him in a sleepy mumble.

“Your place of living,” Soldier says. “Address?”

Rogers mumbles it. Soldier starts planning the route as he swipes into the garage and heads for his motorcycle.

He puts a helmet on Rogers, then dons his own. Rogers hugs him on the back of the motorcycle and Soldier takes a second to prevent his emotions from resurfacing. He turns the engine, then walks the motorcycle back until he can turn around. He puts up the kickstand and takes off, putting his feet up.

It takes an hour to arrive at the address Rogers gave him. Soldier parks the bike nearby, helps Rogers off, and locks the helmets to it. Rogers leans on him still as Soldier walks him up to the building.

“Keys,” Soldier requests.

Rogers grumbles under his breath but digs out a set of keys, then hands them over. Soldier unlocks the front door, then takes Rogers to the stairs and goes up. He unlocks Rogers’ apartment and pushes Rogers inside ahead of him. Soldier looks around, finds the bedroom, and steers Rogers inside. 

Rogers turns back and lifts his arms, but Soldier steps back.

“Daddy?” Rogers mumbles, his lips turning in a pout.

Soldier steps back again. “You do not want me,” he says.

“I do!” Rogers gasps. “I’m sorry I said I didn’t, I was scared!”

Soldier shakes his head. He turns around and starts to leave, but Rogers runs after him, gets in front of him and stops him.

“Please, don’t go,” he begs. “I promise I didn’t mean what I said, I want you to stay!”

Soldier gently moves him aside and steps around him. He looks up and his eyes land on a battered leather armchair in the far corner. He stops.

Rogers grabs his arm and tugs gently. “Please?” he asks, his voice tearful. “Don’t leave me alone!”

Soldier looks at the armchair. His dissociation wavers. There are long, intentional scratches in the leather on the right arm. 

He knows those marks. _No,_ no, he doesn’t. He’s confused. He can’t look away from the marks; upside down and backwards, he knows that they say _BUKY._ The _U_ is more of a _V._ Soldier is confused.

“Please stay?” Rogers begs again.

Soldier gently pushes him away and forces himself to leave. He hears Rogers start to cry again, but after the eighteen hours on the flight, Soldier is numb to the sound. He pulls the door shut and leaves.

On the way back to his bike, Soldier’s control over his emotions breaks. He’s flooded with guilt and _need_ and he almost turns around to run back up to where he left Stevie crying. Soldier stops in the middle of the sidewalk and grabs his head, his breathing labored. His head splits in a sudden migraine and he fumbles with the mask to get it off, sucks in air, and just breathes for a minute.

He knows he can’t go back. Rogers only begged him, called him Daddy, wanted him because he had been the only one there and the months of their interactions lead him to feel attached to Soldier. Rogers will come out of his drop soon and he will feel glad that Soldier left him there. He would be angry if Soldier stayed. Soldier can’t take advantage of him.

Soldier’s head is aching. He goes back to his bike, puts on his helmet, and takes off. He starts towards his apartment, trying, then failing, not to think about Steve anymore.

Soldier passes the Smithsonian then. There are signs advertising the Captain America exhibit. Real objects from Steven Rogers’ home, real photographs, details revealed about Project Rebirth not previously known. Soldier stops, looking at a sign, and his headache deepens.

Soldier tells himself that what he’s feeling is the beginnings of domdrop, the guilt of having left a submissive in pain when he could have helped, and that seeing concrete details of Rogers’ life before the serum won’t do anything. He drives off, hoping that he can get back to his bed and his cat and let the migraine take him out.

He gets home. He feeds Alpine. He leaves his tac gear to be returned to SHIELD and cleaned, and sits down on the couch. His head is splitting.

Alpine brushes against his shins. Soldier pets him with a shaking hand. He flexes and clenches his metal fist over and over, then gets up and takes Xanax and Excedrin; the Xanax dosage is five times what a civilian would take and he takes six Excedrin, just to make sure that it passes through his metabolism and actually benefits him.

He lies down in his dark bedroom and tries to let the meds knock him out. Alpine joins him and lays down on his chest, purring and kneading at his bare skin. The cat probably knows that he’s in distress. Soldier pets him a few times, then lets his hand fall to the bed.

“I don’t need to know,” Soldier tells Alpine. “Right?”

Alpine blinks at him. Soldier pushes him off, gets up, and dresses in civilian clothes. He grabs a photostatic veil and pulls it on, checking in the mirror that he looks nothing like himself before he leaves. His face is totally average, his eyes now brown, the cleft in his chin gone. He leaves.

Back on his bike, Soldier heads back to the Smithsonian. His headache levels out along the way, pulsing behind his eyes. He ignores it. He needs to prove to himself that there’s nothing in Rogers’ past that will give him answers. He needs to cut off the feelings of familiarity brought up by hearing about Brooklyn, about Bucky, by seeing just a single armchair in Rogers’ apartment. It was just a fucking chair, it meant nothing.

Soldier parks his bike, locks it in place, pays for parking, and gets to the museum. He goes through security, pays for the ticket, and heads straight to the Captain America exhibit.

There’s a narrator for every station. Soldier gets to the center and starts looking around, wondering when the Xanax will kick in, and then he sees it.

The narrator’s voice filters back into his head as Soldier approaches, unsure if he’s horrified or amazed. _“James ‘Bucky’ Barnes is the only Howling Commando to have given his life in service…”_

His face is there. In sepia tones, maybe six feet tall, his face is both stoic and boyish. Soldier looks at it, then touches his chin, a little charged with electricity from the veil. He blinks and realizes that he’s tearing up. That’s his face.

Soldier looks at the block of text, but can’t process the words suddenly. He looks at his face, then looks around the exhibit. Does the Smithsonian know that Steve loved Bucky? Does the museum know that Bucky had been Steve’s daddy? That had Bucky collared him? Steve had said that Bucky had bonded him… Does that face on the wall really belong to Bucky?

Soldier looks at himself again, a tear slipping down his face. Is he Bucky?

His phone rings in his pocket. Soldier can’t answer it. He tears his eyes away from the image of his face and looks at more parts of the exhibit. There’s a display of things taken from Steve’s home before the war. A makeshift collar sits under a glass cover, illuminated by yellow lights. There are three dresses hanging on mannequins behind glass; a deep blue with a white collar, a floral dress with a sash, a button-up yellow frock with a white sweater over it. Soldier looks at the block of text next to them and is shocked to see that the Smithsonian thinks they belonged to an Omega Steve had once been with, not to Steve himself. He walks back to the collar and reads that it had belonged to Steve’s submissive. Soldier shakes his head.

That collar was the one Bucky gave to Steve. The dresses had been Sarah’s, then Steve’s. Soldier looks back at the dresses and tries to remember who Sarah was. He walks closer, examining the yellow one, and tries to get his brain to give up more information. All he can picture is Steve in it, his thin knuckles covered by the too-long sleeves of the sweater. He can even see a straw hat on his head with a yellow ribbon around it. It was what Steve wore for Easter and Passover. Soldier’s head is splitting in two, it feels like.

Someone walks up to him and touches his arm; Soldier jerks and barely restrains himself from retaliating violently. A museum guard smiles apologetically.

“The exhibit is closing, Mister,” they say.

“Sorry,” Soldier answers quickly. “Um, do you think you could tell me who – who Sarah might be?”

The guard frowns at him. “I beg your pardon?” 

“In relation to Rogers,” Soldier blurts.

“Sarah Rogers?” the guard suggests with a shrug. “His mother?”

Soldier nods. “Thank you,” he mutters, then hurries to leave.

Outside, it’s suddenly dark. Soldier pulls out his phone to check the time; 8:57. He has twenty-three missed calls from Fury.

Looking at Fury’s name, Soldier swells with anger. Fury knows his face. Fury _knows!_ He’s known this whole time and he never – He never –…

Soldier runs back to his bike. He has a dozen parking tickets. He shoves them all under his seat, then tears off the photostatic veil and puts his mask on instead. He shoves on his helmet, then turns the engine and takes off.

In twenty minutes, he’s pulling up to SHIELD. He leaves his bike behind Fury’s SUV and heads right for his office. 

Soldier bursts in and Fury jumps up from his desk.

“Where the hell –!” Fury starts.

“What is my name?!” Soldier demands.

“What?” Fury says. “We don’t know –”

Soldier rips off his mask and slams it into Fury’s desk. Fury clenches his jaw and Soldier looks him in the eye.

“What is my name?” he asks.

“You went to the Smithsonian,” Fury says softly.

“Look at me and tell me you don’t know!” Soldier yells. “What is my name?!”

Fury exhales. He rubs at his forehead, his lips thin. Soldier bangs his right fist against the desk.

“I swear,” Fury starts, “no one does know for sure. I am the only one who’s seen you without the mask. I swear.”

“Who am I?” Soldier growls.

“I don’t know for sure,” Fury insists again. “My theory – a theory!” he interjects into his own sentence, “– is that you’re a clone of James Barnes.”

Fury just looks at him soberly. Soldier pushes back and shakes his head. He steps back, not yet able to believe his head.

“I wouldn’t have his memories if I’m a clone,” he says quietly.

Fury narrows his eye. “You’re remembering things?”

Soldier grabs his hair and lets out a frustrated noise. “I don’t know!” he says. “I know things about Steve I shouldn’t, I know _him!_ I know he’s mine!”

“You’ve been working with him for months,” Fury suggests.

“No,” Soldier insists. “He’s _mine!_ He’s always been mine, I remember it!”

Fury opens his mouth, then the phone on his desk beeps. He holds up a finger and goes to answer it, Soldier groans and starts pacing angrily.

Fury listens to the phone call, then looks up at him again as he hangs up. Soldier stops.

“Rogers is downstairs,” Fury says calmly. “I tried all day to get a hold of you. In the end, we called another agent to assist him.”

Soldier freezes. Then, instinct, he grabs his mask and shoves it back on as he runs out.

He has to take the elevator down, but it doesn’t move fast enough and he paces it like a caged animal until he reaches Deep Medical. He runs out as soon as the doors open, knocking over someone as he tears through the corridors to get down the next three levels. He bursts into the observation room, panting.

“Soldier!” a white coat gasps; it sounds like relief. “Quick, someone –”

Soldier shoves past them all to get to the drop room door. One of them follows hastily, but Soldier grabs onto the latch and, straining everything, just rips it out of the wall. The whole wall groans and the door hits the opposite wall with a crash. Immediately, he smells an Alpha. He snarls and runs inside.

“Get out!” he growls at the Alpha there.

Belatedly, he recognizes Agent Rumlow. Steve is chained to a spanking bench, his pants are gone, and Rumlow’s holding a paddle. Rumlow doesn’t move fast enough and Soldier charges forward, yanking the paddle from his grip.

“Out!” he shouts.

Rumlow opens his mouth, clearly about to argue, but the PA beeps.

“Please exit, Agent.”

Soldier growls. Rumlow growls back, but backs off. Soldier watches until he’s gone, then drops the paddle.

He rushes to undo the restraints. Even Steve’s head is strapped down. Soldier gets them off and Steve pushes up, trembling. He looks up and Soldier pulls him off the bench into his arms.

Steve whimpers as he clings to him, hiding his face against Soldier’s neck right away. Soldier squeezes him tightly, a hand in his hair and a hand at his back.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, “I shouldn’t’ve left you alone, should’ve stayed with you, sweetheart, I’m so sorry –”

“Can we go home, Daddy?” Steve mumbles into his neck.

Soldier nods. He pulls Steve away from the spanking bench to the bed, then pulls the blanket off it and wraps it around Steve’s shoulders. A pair of sweatpants and boxers lie on the bed as well, and Soldier steadies Steve to help him get into them. Steve huddles under the blanket and Soldier wraps an arm around his shoulders. He brings him back to the entrance.

Fury is in the observation room already. Soldier leads Steve inside and a doctor moves forward.

“He should stay,” they try to stay, but shut up when Soldier growls at them.

“Go,” Fury says.

Soldier just pulls Steve out.

Soldier helps Steve get on his bike. He wishes he had a car, but there are no other options. Steve hugs his back again and this time, Soldier can feel it.

“We’ll go to my place,” he says. “You should be in my territory.”

Steve nods against his back. Soldier pulls out of the garage again.

The drive takes longer than he would’ve liked. At his building, Soldier has to force himself to take the time to secure his bike, but as soon as he does, he scoops Steve off his feet and carries him inside. Steve nuzzles against his shoulder, seeking his scent gland, and Soldier can’t think of a reason to stop him.

Inside, Alpine mewls at Steve. Soldier steps around the cat and goes into his bedroom to put Steve down on his bed. 

“Here,” Soldier says gently as he puts Steve down. “You’re home now, sweetheart.”

Steve sits up, crawling onto his knees, and touches Soldier’s mask. Soldier immediately panics and pulls Steve’s hands away.

“Not yet,” he says gently.

“I wanna see your face,” Steve whispers.

Soldier swallows, but shakes his head. He hasn’t even begun to process what he saw at the museum and he doubts Steve would handle the truth now. Soldier doesn’t even know the truth himself.

“You need to wait,” he says carefully. “When you feel better –”

“Please?” Steve begs. “I wanna kiss you.”

Soldier grips Steve’s wrists and shakes his head. Steve pushes his hands back and gets his fingers under Soldier’s mask.

“Stevie –” Soldier starts, his voice trembling.

Steve slips the mask free. He pulls it away and Soldier shuts his eyes, already flinching. The mask falls and Steve inhales sharply. His hands touch Soldier’s face. They’re shaking.

Soldier opens his eyes and looks up at Steve, worried about his reaction. Steve’s face is pale, his lips are parted. His eyes, crystalline blue and gorgeous, are wide and beading up with tears.

“Bucky?” he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _oop._
> 
> "“You can think about your bonded,” Soldier snaps. “I can’t!”'  
> mira: this is fucking sad moony explain  
> me: can't think about someone you don't remember *finger guns*
> 
> "“Daddy?” Rogers mumbles, his lips turning in a pout."  
> mira: oh no he cute baby boy
> 
> "There are long, intentional scratches in the leather on the right arm."  
> mira: this is fine im fine:)))) *breaks down and cries*


	5. keep diggin' myself down deeper, I won't stop 'til I get where you are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _henlo pls enjoy_

#  _ part 4: keep diggin' myself down deeper, I won't stop 'til I get where you are _

  
  
  


Steve wakes up to someone pounding on his door. He sits up and rubs his eyes. The pounding comes again and he starts, a flash of anxiety hitting him.

“Rogers!” he hears. “Come on!”

Steve pushes up and starts to stand, then stops. He’s still in his tac gear, but one leg of his pants and his left sleeve are just gone. He does remember getting shot, but apparently, Soldier cut him out of his pants to treat it. That he doesn’t exactly remember. Or why his sleeve is gone.

“ROGERS!”

Steve flinches and steadies himself. Then he gets up, gritting his teeth, but his thigh only twinges. He limps to the front door and looks through the peephole. Maria Hill is outside, looking pissed.

He opens the door. Hill glares at him.

“Please don’t be mad at me,” Steve mumbles. “I’ve been shot.”

Hill’s glare shifts and she looks him up and down, then shakes her head and shoves into his apartment. “Put some pants on,” she orders, “you do actually have to debrief.”

Steve wrinkles his nose and hugs the door. “Can you not?” he asks. “I just wanna sleep.”

Hill turns around, then approaches again and looks critically into his eyes. Steve recoils and shrinks away from her, not liking the intense look.

“What happened?” Hill asks, her tone firm yet not unkind.

“I got shot,” Steve says. “Soldier left me here…”

He remembers Soldier turning his back and walking out. He looks away from Hill, not wanting her to see him get emotional, but quickly wipes his nose on his bare arm; the material of his sleeve is too rough to rub against his face.

“Goddammit,” Hill hisses.

“Can you just leave me alone?” Steve snaps at her. “Can I just once in my fucking life have no one judging me?”

Hill is already turning away, bringing her phone to her ear. Steve glares at her, but she doesn’t leave.

“I found Rogers,” she says into her phone. “He’s crashing, yes. He said the Soldier brought him to his place and left him.”

“Why don’t you put an ad in the Post?” Steve grumbles.

Hill drops her phone to her shoulder and looks at him. “I need you to come with me,” she says.

Steve glares back and digs his heels in. “I am already home!”

“We’ll bring the Soldier in and he can help you through your drop at HQ,” Hill adds.

Steve hesitates, pressing close to his door again. “Don’ think he’ll come,” he says quietly. “Didn’t wanna stay with me earlier…”

“He’ll come,” Hill promises. “You can go change into something comfortable, then we’ll go.”   
  


Steve glances at her, then pulls away from the door. He keeps her in the corner of his eye as he walks back to his room until he can shut the door between them. In the privacy of his bedroom, he strips out of his suit and changes into sweatpants and a shirt. He exits again and Hill is still waiting for him.

“Let’s go,” she says.

“I don’t think he’ll come,” Steve blurts.

“He has to,” Hill answers. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”   
  


Steve follows her despite his reservations. If Soldier had wanted to take care of him, he would’ve stayed to begin with. Maybe Soldier only left to turn in the information they’d gotten, debrief so Steve didn’t have to. Maybe he was waiting for Steve. Or maybe Steve would get there and they’d just pump him full of drugs with no Soldier in sight.

Steve is already in Hill’s car when he decides Soldier won’t come. He’ll just have to look forward to the cold pain of drug therapy.

Hill takes Steve directly to Deep Medical and he’s coaxed into the drop room by a couple of people in white coats. Steve gets inside and the door shuts behind him, locking, and he suddenly swells with panic. He turns back and shouts at them, banging on the door, but no one answers him.

“I wanna go home!” he screams.

Nobody opens the door. Now angry, Steve goes looking for things to throw at the window. Of course, they’d gotten smarter since the first time they’d thrown him in there. There’s nothing he could throw. He grabs the weighted blanket and crawls under the bed, lying down on his stomach with the blanket over him. He keeps an eye on the door, expecting either the Soldier or doctors to come through. He blames himself for letting Hill into his apartment in the first place. It’s his fault he’s here for once.

Nobody does for a while. Steve, hating the silence, turns onto his back and taps the metal frame of the bed with his nails to occupy himself. He looks back out at the door every few notes, convinced he’d heard something or someone in the room with him. He hits a lull in energy eventually and falls asleep under the bed.

Then, the door does open. Steve scrambles onto his front and then out from under the bed, hoping he’ll see the Soldier. He’s already ready to promise to be a good boy and cry out of sheer relief; he won’t fight Soldier’s orders anymore, he can’t.

But it’s not the Soldier. It’s Agent Rumlow from the STRIKE team. Steve quickly backs under the bed again.

“Go away,” he snaps.

“I’m here to help you, Steve,” Rumlow says. “Why don’t you come out from under there?”

“Go away!” Steve shouts, crawling backwards quickly.

“It’s okay,” Rumlow just tells him. “Nobody’s watching us, nobody’s going to see us in here, you can trust me.”

“No, you’re wrong!” Steve insists. “You’re not my daddy, leave me alone!”   
  


Rumlow squats down in front of the bed and just smiles at him. Steve whimpers, upset, and crawls back until he hits the wall, then presses against it.

“C’mere,” Rumlow says gently. “Be a good little boy and come out from under there for Daddy.”

“You’re not my daddy!” Steve shouts at him. “I don’t want you!”

“But I’m the one here for you,” Rumlow answers, calm and serene and  _ foul. _ “If you come out of there, I’ll be your Daddy, I’ll even give you a nice treat. Would you like a treat, Stevie?”

Steve shakes his head, feeling sick. He’d never thought Soldier would do something this cruel, not just abandon him, but send someone  _ else _ to prey on his vulnerable feelings. He suddenly hates the Soldier again.

“Come out for Daddy,” Rumlow growls carefully.

It’s so compelling. Steve’s halfway out from under the bed before he realizes what he’s doing. Rumlow starts to smirk and Steve stops, then snarls at him. He doesn’t crawl out. He launches out and knocks Rumlow on his back.

“Hey!” Rumlow shouts. “Do not do that, bad Stevie!”

“I’m not a fuckin’ dog!” Steve growls back at him. “You want me to obey you, piece’a shit, make me!”

Rumlow gets up and as soon as he’s on his feet, Steve lunges and swings at him. His fist knocks into Rumlow’s face and there’s a satisfying crack as Rumlow whips around and stumbles back. 

“You think you can Dom me?” Steve roars at him. “Make me!”

Rumlow yanks something out of his pocket and it turns out to be a small pistol. Steve’s eyes widen, he goes to scramble back under the bed, and then he hears the pistol hiss and there’s a prick at the back of his neck. His body fails him. Steve collapses, fighting to keep his eyes open. Rumlow steps over him and kneels down in his sight.

“I guess you need a punishment,” he says softly. “It’s alright, boy, I’ll take care of you.”

Steve forces his lips into a snarl. “Go to hell,” he wheezes before his vision fades.

He wakes up in a jerk. His eyes fly open and he tries to move, then discovers that he’s chained down to a bench. Steve screams, just lets out his hurt and rage, and hopes that will scare whoever’s in the room off for at least a second.

Rumlow walks into his field of vision and grabs his hair, immediately pulling it tight. Steve bares his teeth at him.

“I gave you an opportunity to be a good boy,” Rumlow tells him anyway. “You decided to be a bad boy. Now I’m going to punish you, but as soon as that’s done, it’ll be over and you’ll be forgiven and you can be good again. Do you wanna be good?”

“I will rip your fucking throat out,” Steve snarls. “Do not touch me!”

Rumlow just smiles and holds up a paddle. “I’m not gonna use my bare hand, sweetie, don’t worry.”

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Steve shouts at him.

Rumlow lets go of his hair and walks around him. Steve growls and yanks with his limbs, but the restraints are incredibly strong. He’s fastened at the wrists, the elbows, his shoulders, his waist, his ankles, knees, hips, and even his head. He strains and tries to snap the metal. It groans, but stays put.

“I’m going to spank you,” Rumlow announces. “I’m not going to stop until you’re sorry for what you did. I want you to say  _ thank you, Daddy _ each time I hit you, you understand?”

“Shove a pinecone up your ass!” Steve yells behind him. “Get fucked by Hitler, you piece of shit!”

Rumlow taps his butt with the paddle; Steve sucks in his breath. The leather hit his bare skin. Rumlow took his pants off.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!” Steve yells again, now more than just angry. “Don’t touch me!”

The paddle hits him square over his sit spot. Steve bites his lip instead of crying out, then growls as he strains to break the chains again. 

“Say  _ thank you, _ ” Rumlow growls back at him.

“No!” Steve answers. “You’re a fucking sicko, you bastard!”

“Yeah?” Rumlow growls again. “I can beat your ass all day, sweetie, it’s no trouble to me. Say  _ thank you, _ ” he demands, and his voice is compelling.

Steve bites his tongue instead of letting it form words. He just growls and yanks on the chains. The paddle strikes him again and Steve bites his tongue again, hard enough that it actually hurts worse than the spank; he even tastes blood. He still holds in any acknowledgment of the pain.

“You wanna be a brat still?” Rumlow asks him. “I came in here to  _ help _ you, boy, what kinda attitude do you give me, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Steve snarls.

Rumlow hits him again. Steve screams through his teeth and shakes his whole body, hoping to tip over the bench he’s tied to. Rumlow just spanks him more, laying into his ass hard.

“Say  _ thank you, _ ” Rumlow demands again.

“Fuck you!” Steve screams.

Rumlow sighs. His noises of disappointment only make Steve angrier and the spanks do little better.

“Come on!” Rumlow tries to encourage him. “This isn’t helping you, Steve, why won’t you just thank me?”

“I hate you!” Steve tells him. “I hope you burn in hell!”

Rumlow keeps spanking him. Steve keeps trying to break his bonds, but they stay stubbornly in place. He stays stubbornly tight-lipped, except when he opens them to hurl insults at Rumlow. He’d actually liked Agent Rumlow before this. Now he’d be happy to see him get hit by a bus.

“Do I need to just leave you here overnight?” Rumlow asks. “Will that make you any more grateful?”

“Definitely leave,” Steve snaps, “before I break this thing and bash your skull in!”

“I’m tempted to gag you,” Rumlow says.

“I’ll bite it off,” Steve growls back.

The paddle smacks into him again. Steve grits his teeth and presses his forehead down against its rest. Rumlow doesn’t stop to speak to him again, just continues to wail into him with the paddle. Steve hasn’t been counting, but Rumlow has to have hit him at least a hundred times. Maybe a thousand. He’ll still refuse to thank him.

Rumlow draws back the paddle and before he can bring it back, there’s an echoing crash in the room. Steve lifts his head as much as he can, but can’t see what happened. He feels Rumlow backing up and wonders if now is finally when he’ll be able to break the chains; he strains and doesn’t.

“Out!” an electronic voice breaks up the rattling of the chains.

Steve freezes. He feels the tense air between two Alphas behind him, then the PA chimes and someone says, “Please exit, Agent.” 

Steve hears Soldier’s distorted growl. Rumlow growls back, but the Soldier is louder and Rumlow stops. Steve hears him huff, then he leaves. Steve collapses into the bench in relief. He doesn’t care that Soldier didn’t come for him before anymore. His ass is on fire from Rumlow’s spanking and the mortification that his clothes had been removed while he was unconscious is suddenly threatening to break him.

The chains rattle and then their pressure on his body is gone. Steve pushes up, feeling weak, and turns to look, almost doubting his senses. He sees Soldier’s mask and crumbles in relief. He falls off the bench and into Soldier’s arms, clinging to him immediately. Soldier hugs him back, grips the back of his neck and the small of his back, and Steve whimpers into his neck.

“I’m so sorry,” Soldier says, his voice low and mechanical and a relief. “I shouldn’t’ve left you alone, should’ve stayed with you, sweetheart, I’m so sorry –”

“Can we go home, Daddy?” Steve cuts him off.

He feels Soldier nod. Soldier pulls him away and Steve drops a hand to cover his groin, feeling his cheeks heat in shame. Then Soldier wraps a blanket around him and Steve hugs it closely, almost moaning with his gratitude. He notices his clothes just as Soldier grabs them off the bed and Steve relaxes; they’re intact. Soldier helps him get into them. Clothed again, Steve holds the blanket tight to him anyway. Soldier marches him away, to the far exit where the door has been literally ripped off the chamber, and up the stairs to the observation room.

“He should stay,” someone says.

Soldier growls. Steve presses closer to him with a soft whimper.

“Go,” Fury’s voice announces.

Soldier pulls Steve through the observation room. Steve stops even looking where they’re going. They get into an elevator and Steve presses against Soldier’s chest to shove his face into his neck again. Soldier hugs him and drops his chin onto Steve’s hair.

Soldier’s scent blockers are wearing off. He smells woodsy. Steve inhales and savors it. It reminds him of Bucky, but that’s distant in his mind.

The elevator stops and Soldier pulls him off. Steve keeps his eyes on the ground, following his Daddy closely. He feels proud of himself for it and can’t wait for Soldier to praise him. Soldier puts him on the same motorcycle as before and Steve hugs his back as they leave.

“We’ll go to my place,” Soldier says over his shoulder as they pull out of the parking garage. “You should be in my territory.”

Steve grins against Soldier’s back at the thought. Soldier’s home will be warm and smell like him and will be safe. He’s excited to be in Soldier’s bed, to get to feel Soldier’s bare skin, to kiss him. This is the end of his denial. He loves the Soldier. He’s going to be the Soldier’s boy.

The ride is over quickly, or maybe it takes hours. Steve can’t tell. Soldier helps him off the bike, locks it, then sweeps Steve off his feet to walk him up to an apartment building. They take another elevator and Steve snuggles against Soldier’s front, purring softly when Soldier hugs him back. Off the elevator, Soldier walks down a few corridors, then Soldier’s unlocking a door and Steve is hit by a fully rich, unsuppressed Alpha-scent. He sucks in a breath. It’s earthy, savory, full of heady and smokey notes.

Steve’s immediately dizzy with it. Maybe it’s just his drop, but the scent is just like Bucky’s. It hits him hard. He's almost out of breath.

A cat meows and Steve isn’t able to process that. The apartment is almost normal, and Steve can’t process that. Soldier carries Steve through a kitchen and a living room, then into a bedroom and puts him down on the bed.

“Here,” Soldier murmurs. “You’re home now, sweetheart.”

Steve pushes onto his knees and stands up on them, reaching up to grab Soldier’s mask; he wants it off, he wants to see Soldier’s face. Soldier grabs his wrists, however, and pulls them back.

“Not yet,” he says.

“I wanna see your face,” Steve insists.

Soldier shakes his head at him. Steve is dizzy with the scent around him; his heart insists that it’s Bucky's. His head is insisting that it can’t be. He’s so confused. He needs to see Soldier’s face.

“You need to wait,” Soldier rumbles, deep and electronic. “When you feel better –”

“Please?” Steve cuts him off. “I wanna kiss you,” he bargains.

Soldier changes his grip on Steve’s wrists and shakes his head again. But Steve takes the moment to get his fingers under the corners of the mask, lifting.

“Stevie –” Soldier says, his voice cracking in pitch through the filter.

Steve pulls on the mask. The goggles come with it and effortlessly, Steve lifts it clear of Soldier’s head. His eyes catch the way his hair lifts from the straps around his head, and then his gaze drops to Soldier’s face.

Steve drops the mask. Soldier is squeezing his eyes shut, like he doesn’t want to face Steve. Now, it’s not just the scent in the apartment that’s confusing Steve.

Soldier slowly opens his eyes, pale and blue and gray. Steve, unable to believe what he’s seeing, reaches up and touches his face. His high cheekbones, the dip in his chin, the thin bow of his lips. His hair is long. His eyebrows are bushy and almost meet in the middle. He has a beard.

“Bucky?” Steve whispers.

“I don’t know,” Soldier whispers back in an emotional voice, just as Steve remembers it. “I’m so sorry, Stevie, I don’t – I don’ know.”

Steve’s breath catches in his chest. He cups Bucky’s face, searches Bucky’s eyes, and can’t process anything.

“You –” he says, his voice breaking. “You’re –”

“I don’t remember,” Soldier tells him. “I told you. SHIELD found me thirty years ago and I’ve barely remembered anything –”

“HYDRA!” Steve gasps. “Oh, my God – HYDRA –!”

Soldier just nods, clenching his jaw. Steve chokes on an inhale and surges forward to kiss him. Soldier catches him and almost lifts him off his knees. Steve clutches at his hair, almost down to his shoulders, and kisses him hungrily. Everything he feels, smells, sees, tells him that Bucky is there; his Alpha, his Daddy, his best friend is alive. Part of him agrees that it makes sense. They’d known long ago that Zola enhanced Bucky. HYDRA must have found him in the ravine. Soldier has already explained his amnesia to him. Steve has always felt so  _ drawn  _ to him.

“Bucky,” Steve whispers against Soldier’s lips. “I don’t – I don’t know –”

Soldier catches his cheek and pulls him back an inch, but their noses brush. Steve is breathing hard. He’s going to cry and he doesn’t know if he wants to.

“Is it you?” Steve asks tearfully. “Please, please don’t lie to me. I can’t take that.”

Soldier inhales sharply and exhales a soothing coo; Bucky used to do that all the time. He brushed their noses together gently, tenderly, and pressed a soft kiss against Steve’s upper lip.

“I don’t know who I am,” Soldier murmurs. “I remember – I remember a few things.”

“Tell me,” Steve demands. “What?”

Soldier hesitates. Steve grabs onto his shirt and clings to him, looking at his eyelids while Soldier looks down between them.

“I went to the exhibit at the Smithsonian,” Soldier says quietly. “Just today. After I left – left you at your place. I thought if I saw who you used to be, I could stop thinking about you and – and who I’d been…”

Steve lets out a broken noise. Soldier cups his jaw and the back of his neck, squeezing his neck, and Steve goes limp a little while he whimpers. Soldier kisses his nose and Steve presses closer instinctively.

“I’ve been dreaming about you since we met,” Soldier confesses. “Not just you now, how you used to look. When we were walking back to the jet, you were talking about how things used to be for you, how you looked before, I – I hadn't realized what you’d been like before the serum, but I knew my – my boy, I knew a bit of what he looked like –”

“Me?” Steve cuts him off softly.

Soldier nods, his jaw clenching again. Steve touches his face and Soldier looks up at him at last.

“I didn’t know,” Soldier whispers. “That I – That Bucky –”

Steve just makes another broken noise. Soldier presses their foreheads together, cradling the back of Steve’s neck.

“I saw your collar at the museum,” Soldier continues in a whisper. “It was a belt that I – that Bucky cut up and softened the edges off. You put it on the third notch when you put it on yourself, but I put it on the second notch.”

“Bucky,” Steve just exhales, because he was right, and no one could have told him that because no one but the two of them knew. 

His Bucky is alive.

Bucky kisses him again. Steve grabs onto his clothes, fisting his hands in them, and Bucky’s hands dig into his back. Steve can’t bring himself to doubt anything. He feels tears leaking from his eyes as Bucky kisses him. They break apart and Bucky inhales deeply, but Steve lets out a sob and presses into his neck.

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes out. “I – I said I didn’t want you, I’m so sorry!”

Bucky hushes him softly and cups the back of his head, holding him in place. “You didn’t know,” he says gently.

“I did,” Steve confesses. “Ever since the first time you took me down, I – I wanted to be with you –! I wanted you so much, it was so confusing and – and you’re here! You  _ are _ my Daddy and I said – I said you weren't –!"

Bucky kisses his neck and holds him tightly. A sob catches in Steve’s throat and he clings harder, locks his arms around Bucky, and swears that second to never let go of him again.

“I felt the same,” Bucky says gently. “I didn’t know you were already mine, so when I wanted you, I felt guilty.”

“I’m so sorry,” Steve whimpers.

“But it’s okay,” Bucky tells him, nuzzling his shoulder. “We’re here, we’re together.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again, hiccuping.

Bucky touches his neck, then his cheek, and Steve pulls back. Bucky presses their lips together and Steve can taste his own tears. He touches Bucky’s face and is both surprised and not to feel tears on his cheeks.

“I love you,” Steve says against Bucky’s mouth. “I missed you  _ so _ much!”

“I missed you, too,” Bucky promises, “I love you, too. It’s okay, we’re here.”

Steve catches his breath and hiccups again. Bucky smiles weakly and brushes the tears off Steve’s face.

“I should’ve listened to you since the beginning,” Steve whimpers. “We could’ve been here  _ months _ ago.”

Bucky just shakes his head. “I was just as defensive,” he says. “I kept telling myself that you couldn’t’ve been my boy, that I was just confused because we were pushed into being so close to each other. I didn’t want to get hurt, I – I’m sorry.”

Steve shakes his head, too. “You wanted to help me and I wouldn’t let you.”

“You didn’t wanna get hurt, either,” Bucky insists.

“I said I hated you,” Steve realizes, his voice shaking in horror. “I said I didn’t want you! I swear, I was lying, even though I didn’t know, I was lying, I’m so sorry –”

Bucky cuts him off by kissing him. Steve whimpers more as Bucky holds him close, grabbing tight onto his clothes again. He tugs on them, whining, and Bucky pulls back for just a second, letting go of him, to rip his shirt off over his head. 

His left side is covered in scars where the metal arm connects to his body. Steve’s breath catches again and he touches hesitant fingers to Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky grimaces and reaches up as if to hide the scars from view.

“I’m probably nothing like you remember,” Bucky says quietly.

Steve pushes Bucky’s hand away and puts both of his own on his chest, spreading his fingers out to touch as much of him as possible. “Who cares?” he counters. “I’m nothing like I used to be, either.”

“I don’t remember what you used to be like,” Bucky admits softly.

“Then it doesn’t matter,” Steve insists. “I love you, I’ve been breaking down for two  _ years _ missing you –”

Bucky catches his waist and pulls him flush against his chest, tucking their noses together. “Baby,” he rumbles, quiet and emotional and tender. 

Steve touches his face again with one hand and slides his other up to cradle his scent gland. He feels raised scar tissue and looks down again to see the marks of their old bonding bite. It’s seventy-five years old. Bucky cups his face, too, and Steve bends down to nuzzle into his neck, rubbing his cheek over Bucky’s bonding scar.

“I missed you, Daddy,” Steve whispers. “So much.”

Bucky scoops him back off the bed, lifting him easily off it. Steve wraps his legs around Bucky’s hips, not even feeling pain in his wounded thigh, and Bucky turns to carry him away from the bed.

“Bucky!” Steve gasps, upset and pointing back at the obvious place they should be: the bed, where Bucky can fuck him again. “Where are we going?!”

“Shower,” Bucky says. “Have to get Rumlow off you.”

Steve whines and hides his face in Bucky’s neck. “Do I smell like him?” he asks timidly.

Bucky growls softly. Steve whimpers and rubs against Bucky’s scent gland, hating that he smells like anyone but  _ his _ partner. They enter a bathroom and Bucky puts him on his feet next to a shower/bathtub. He steps aside to turn on the shower and Steve, weary and weak, falls smoothly to his knees. He already feels better there.

Bucky glances back at him, then clucks his tongue softly and crowds into his space to pull Steve against him. Steve buries his face in Bucky’s stomach and nuzzles him, hugging his knees. Bucky combs through his hair.

“My boy,” Bucky says softly. “I’m so sorry it took so long to get here, Stevie-doll.”

“Here now,” Steve mumbles, tucking his chin into the waistband of Bucky’s pants. “Daddy, I’ve missed you?”

It’s a question as much as a statement. His face is level with Bucky’s crotch, and Steve  _ needs _ to be claimed again. It’s been so long since he served Bucky, he misses it as strongly as the feel of Bucky’s touch.

Bucky quickly pushes down his pants and boxers. Steve could never forget any detail of his Daddy’s body, but after so long, it’s surreal to see him again. And he’s not the same as he’d been when they were young. Bucky shoves his pants down to his knees, then to his ankles, and kicks them off. The hair on his legs is thicker and darker than it had been seventy years ago, his muscles are bigger, he’s even broader, but his cock is just the same; nestled in thick, black curls, neatly circumcised, the skin of his shaft and his sac pigmented darker than the rest of his body.

Steve gets his hands on Bucky’s shaft, picks it up, and buries his nose against his balls. Bucky threads his fingers through Steve’s hair and just pets him. The shower begins to steam up the room and Steve inhales deeply Bucky’s pure scent.

“I remember this,” Bucky says softly. “You’re a just sweet little boy that needs to belong to Daddy.”

Steve nods, already dizzy and high. He kisses Bucky’s balls, then starts to kiss and suck on the underside of his shaft. 

“Do you need to make me come?” Bucky asks, calm and tender, as if the question is only for Steve.

It is only for him. Desperate and hungry, Steve whines and nods. Bucky fists a hand in his hair and pulls it tight. Steve sits back on his hips and just lets his mouth hang open, whining more. He’s crying again. So is Bucky.

“You’re long overdue,” Bucky says, his voice thick. “Go on, sweetheart. Take what you need.”

Steve pulls against Bucky’s fist and takes the tip of his cock into his mouth. He cups his balls with one hand and starts rubbing his shaft with the other. He’s clumsy and uncoordinated, but Bucky gets hard quickly. Steve sucks on his tip, mouths at his frenulum, twists his wrist and moves his fist up and down Bucky’s cock fast. Bucky is soon panting and Steve continues to cry, but it’s with relief now. The second he tastes Bucky’s pre-cum, he focuses his mouth on just his tip to drink it up. He’s  _ missed _ his Alpha so fucking much –

Bucky comes in just a few minutes. Steve swallows some, but lets much of it spill over his mouth and down his chin. Bucky immediately scoops up some of the mess and rubs it down his neck. Steve hiccups again and blinks away tears. Bucky bends and pulls him to his feet by his elbows. Steve presses against him, putting his face in his neck, and Bucky coos soothingly as Steve shakes and cries.

"We're here," Bucky says. "We're together. We'll be together until the end of the line, Stevie."

Steve chokes on a sob and hugs him tighter. Bucky kisses his shoulder.

"Did we say that before?" Bucky asks softly.

Steve just nods. Bucky kisses his neck.

"See?" Bucky says gently. "It's true. Way better'n  _ 'til death do we part, _ 'cause we beat that, didn't we?"

Steve nods again, inhaling sharply. Bucky coaxes him back and kisses him.

"My sweet baby," Bucky says against his mouth. "Never letting go of you again."

"Better not," Steve threatens weakly. "I'll do something even stupider than getting turned into a jock."

Bucky clucks his tongue again and cups Steve's chin, shaking his head. "No, baby, you're too soft and pretty to be a jock. You're still a little fairy, you'll always be my little fairy."

Steve smiles as weak as his threat and nuzzles into Bucky's hand. "Said that before," he says.

"'Cause it's true," Bucky insists. "Doesn't matter if you got tall, you're a dainty lil' thing, a little boy that needs his Daddy."

Steve nods and presses close to kiss him again. Bucky cradles the back of his neck and Steve presses one hand against Bucky's chest, then cups his softening dick with the other. The tip is still wet and Steve rubs his fingers into it.

"Give it a minute," Bucky tells him softly, "then you can rub up on it more, baby boy."

"Clothes," Steve whispers.

Bucky pushes him back an inch and grabs the hem of Steve’s shirt. Steve raises his arms and Bucky strips it off him. Steve surges in again to hug him and Bucky shoves at the waistband of his pants as Steve presses into his throat.

"Step out of 'em," Bucky tells him.

Steve kicks them off. They're still both wearing socks and it feels odd to be otherwise naked. Bucky pulls back the shower curtain and checks the temperature, then adjusts the dials. Steve pulls his socks off by stepping on the toes and kicks them away, too, then, just because he wants to, he kneels again.

Bucky glances back at him, then steps close and pulls Steve close with a hand on his head. Steve nuzzles against Bucky's cock and purrs softly. Bucky begins to brush through his hair with a hand.

"I love you so much, little boy," Bucky murmurs.

"Love my Daddy," Steve whispers against his skin.

Bucky bends and kisses the top of his head. "You're mine," he says.

Steve takes his other hand and puts it on his throat. Bucky squeezes gently.

"I have an idea," Bucky says. "Stay there a second."

Steve sits back on his heels, blinking. Bucky adjusts the water, then the showerhead cuts off and water flows from the faucet instead. Bucky unhooks the showerhead and lets it hang by the hose, then pushes the curtain all the way to the side. He turns back and picks up Steve's hand.

"Get in, baby," Bucky says.

Steve stands up on his knees, then shifts his weight to his toes and stands up. He steps into the bathtub and sits down again, then looks back up at Bucky, just hoping. Bucky smiles at him, then pauses to take off his shoes and socks. Steve grins when Bucky gets in behind him, and when Bucky extends his legs to frame him, Steve scoots back to lean against his chest.

Bucky kisses his cheek. "My boy," he says in a soft rumble. "My sweet boy."

Steve grins and turns onto his hip to press his cheek against Bucky's chest. He shifts until his ear is pressed against his breast and he can hear his heart beating. It sends a deep calm through him.

"Bite me again, Daddy," Steve asks softly.

"I will," Bucky answers, kissing his hair. "Do you feel me?"

Bucky's hand touches Steve's chest, just over his heart. Steve turns his face into Bucky, grimacing tightly. He shakes his head.

"That's alright, honey," Bucky says quickly. "I'll bite you again and then you'll never lose me again, alright? I'm not letting you go anywhere without me. You're never leaving my sight."

Steve relaxes and nods, rubbing against Bucky's chest. Bucky gave him another kiss to his hair, then leaned forward and grabbed the showerhead and a bar of soap.

Steve loses tension from the hot water. Bucky massages the back of his neck, his shoulders, down his back, and even his pecs, and Steve spreads out against his chest. The soap smells like citrus and something woodsy; it isn't as good as Bucky but it smells wonderful anyway. 

"No more scent blocker pills," Bucky murmurs against Steve's hair. "You can wear patches or take the temporary kind for missions."

"Yessir," Steve answers softly.

“I won’t take ‘em either,” Bucky adds. “Be better for you, honey.”

Steve smiles and snuggles closer, tucking his face into Bucky’s neck. Bucky’s scent is faint still, but it doesn’t matter because it’s all around in the apartment and it’s been rubbed thoroughly into his skin. He’ll get more of it after their bath, and more of it after that, and more after that, and Bucky won’t ever stop marking him again.

“All clean,” Bucky says softly. “Do you want to stay in the bath a while longer?”

Steve shakes his head. He turns on his front and mouths at Bucky’s scent gland, alternating rubbing his nose and cheeks on it and sucking on it. Bucky shifts with a grunt, sitting up and pushing Steve back onto his knees, then the water shuts off.

“Sit back,” Bucky tells him.

Steve drops onto his heels, resting his hands on his thighs. Bucky brushes through his wet hair for a moment, then taps under his chin as he stands up and gets out. Steve sucks in a breath, overwhelmed by emotion again. 

Bucky grabs towels, then turns back. He sees Steve and makes a soft, soothing noise as he kneels down by the tub and cups Steve’s chin.

“What’s wrong, honey?” he asks. “Tell me, baby, I’ll make it better.”

“Nothing,” Steve whispers thickly. “Nothing’s  _ wrong, _ it’s perfect.”

Bucky smiles, a little worn and as emotional as Steve. He cups Steve’s face with both hands and pulls him in, kissing his forehead. He pulls back, then gets up again and takes Steve’s hands. Steve uses him for balance and steps out of the water onto the mat covering the floor.

“C’mere, baby,” Bucky encourages, “let me dry you.”

Steve raises his arms above his head with a smile. Bucky taps his chin again, then wraps him in the towel and starts rubbing him down. Steve watches water drip down the lines of Bucky’s body, dragging hair all to point down with gravity, and can’t help but compare him now to how he was during the war. They’d been mandated to keep clean-shaven back then, but Bucky never shaved his body. He used to trim his pubic hair when they were younger, and while in the Army, there wasn’t time or the right tools to bother with such grooming, he’d also suffered the ill effects of imprisonment in his skin and hair for a long time. The new thickness and density of his body hair are beautiful. Even still, he looks a little older and a lot healthier. 

“What’re you lookin’ at, little boy?” Bucky asks softly, cupping Steve’s chin again. 

Steve immediately blushes. Bucky smiles a little and wraps the towel snugly around Steve’s chest; it barely covers his crotch and ass.

“Go lie down on the bed,” Bucky tells him. “Make yourself comfy, I’ll be right there.”

Steve does not like that. He pouts and presses close, hugging Bucky around the neck. 

“Aw, baby,” Bucky coos, “don’t wanna go by yourself?”

“Nossir,” Steve mumbles, tucking into Bucky’s neck. “Don’ wanna leave you.”

“Alright, you sit down for a minute, then,” Bucky says, guiding Steve towards the closed toilet. “Don’t want you gettin’ dizzy or nothin’.”

“Don’t get dizzy anymore,” Steve reminds him.

“Still,” Bucky says, pushing him down carefully.

Steve sits down with a smile. Bucky smiles at him as he steps back to dry himself off. Steve watches carefully again, his gaze fixing again and again on Bucky’s crotch.

Bucky tosses the towel over the curtain bar, then turns to face him again. He smiles again and extends his hand.

“C’mon, sweetness,” he says. “Let’s go to bed.”

Steve takes his hand and lets Bucky pull him in. He tucks into Bucky’s side and Bucky wraps an arm around him. Bucky guides him out of the bathroom first, pushing him towards the bed. Steve goes happily, dropping his towel, and falls onto the bed. He rolls onto his back, lifting his arms up, and Bucky climbs onto the bed between his knees.

“Please don’t be gentle, Daddy?” Steve asks.

“Oh, baby,” Bucky murmurs, bracing himself on his elbows above Steve’s head. “I wanna love you an’ be sweet, alright?”

Steve grabs his face and pulls him into a kiss. Bucky tucks his knees against Steve’s ass, pushing his thighs back and knees up.

“Please, I missed you,” Steve begs him. “I missed you!”

Bucky shushes him and kisses him again. He settles his hips against Steve’s, slotting their dicks together, and Steve whines, wanting more. Bucky kisses him hard, claiming his mouth, then goes down his jaw, down his neck. Steve pulls his knees back, stretching himself open, and pulls his chin back to bare his throat. Bucky starts kissing his scent gland, then puts his weight on his left elbow and reaches between them with his right hand to rub at Steve’s hole. He’s wet, but not by much. Bucky’s fingers are infuriatingly gentle.

“Please!” Steve begs again, gasping for air. “Daddy, I missed you so much, please don’t make me wait, I need you, I need you –”

“I know, baby,” Bucky croons against his jaw. “It’s alright, I’m gonna treat you right, sweet boy, give you what you deserve.”

Steve inhales and his breath stutters as he lets it out. He’s emotional again, overwrought with it. Bucky kisses his scent gland again, his fingers massage at Steve’s rim gently, and Steve chokes up on another sob.

“It’s alright, baby,” Bucky murmurs, lifting up to brush their noses together. “You can cry it out, let it all out, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Steve pulls him into another kiss, crying through it. He’ll cry for Bucky. He’d always cried for Bucky.

“Been a long time, babydoll,” Bucky says against his mouth, his voice breaking up like Steve’s. “I’m gonna be sweet to you, open you up nicely, alright?”

“Daddy, please,” Steve whispers.

Bucky kisses him, slow and gentle. He circles his fingers over Steve’s hole, and he’s right, the pressure is uncomfortable and foreign. Steve holds Bucky’s face close, whimpering, and Bucky continues to kiss him sweetly.

“I love you,” Bucky says against his mouth. “My boy,  _ my  _ boy, you’re my good fuckin’ boy, I love you so much.”

“My Daddy,” Steve whispers back. “I love you.”

“Lemme know when I can give you one,” Bucky murmurs. “We’re goin’ slow, honey, just one at a time.”

Steve nods a little. Bucky kisses his chin, then he’s back on his neck, kissing and sucking and biting. Steve holds him close, hand tight in his hair. Bucky settles at his scent gland and turns circles around his rim. Slowly, the pressure becomes less foreign, more familiar.

“Daddy,” Steve exhales. “One, Daddy, please?”

Bucky nods against his neck, kisses up towards his ear, and gently slides a finger past Steve’s loosened rim. Steve hisses, tensing up, and Bucky shushes him, cooing, and keeps rubbing his rim as his finger pushes in.

“It’s alright, baby boy,” Bucky says sweetly, “I’m here, I’ve got you, Daddy’s got you.”

“Daddy’s got me,” Steve repeats, whispering. 

Bucky brings their lips together again, still gentle and sweet. Steve grabs onto his shoulders and the back of his neck, egging him on by biting his lip, and Bucky only swirls his finger softly in Steve’s hole.

“You’re like a virgin again, baby,” Bucky says against Steve’s mouth. “Daddy’s gonna be careful with you, alright?”

“‘M not a virgin,” Steve pants.

Bucky smiles and Steve catches his face to really  _ look  _ at him, so he can memorize the newness and the familiarity and everything different and the same about his lover’s face. There are lines at the corners of his eyes, lines of dark gray in his brown hair, the  _ beard. _ Steve runs his fingers through the thick, soft hair on his jaw and cheek and Bucky catches his wrist to press into his palm. His smile is golden and sad and sweet all at once.

“I’m gonna get some slick,” Bucky says softly. “Put a finger in your hole to keep it open for me, alright?”

Steve nods. Bucky kisses his forehead, then pushes up and his hands leave Steve’s body. Steve reaches between his legs and slides the tip of his middle finger inside his ass, straining his shoulders to maintain the awkward position. Bucky steps to the nightstand, opens a drawer, and takes out a clear bottle of vaguely white liquid. He steps back to stand in front of Steve, squirts the slick into his hand, then slips his finger alongside Steve’s. Steve pulls back and drops his arms above his head, panting hard again. Bucky’s finger slides into him easily and the stretch is suddenly nothing.

“There,” Bucky says. “You just needed a little help, baby.”   
  


Steve swallows and bites his lip, but nods. Bucky clucks his tongue and bends over him to nuzzle their noses together, brush his lips against Steve’s.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “It doesn’t matter, it’s been a long time and you’re emotional.”

Steve sucks in his breath and nods again. Bucky kisses him gently, tenderly, and Steve grabs onto his head again to keep him close. Bucky still has just one finger in him, but he’s moving it regularly and Steve feels like his body is recognizing who’s touching him and letting him in.

“Here you go, baby,” Bucky says, tracing a second finger around his rim. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

“Missed you, Daddy,” Steve says softly.

Bucky kisses his mouth and his left hand comes up to push Steve’s arms up above his head. He puts Steve’s wrists together and Steve stays still without a verbal command. Bucky grins for a moment, tucking their noses together as he stays close, then he kisses Steve again with abandon.

Steve whimpers when Bucky puts the second finger in him. His body is tight and Bucky’s thumb rubs at his rim while he scissors his two fingers deep in him. Bucky’s left-hand leaves Steve’s wrists, instead touching his waist, and Steve stays where he’s been put.

“Good boy,” Bucky murmurs, “Daddy’s proud of you, sweetness.”

“‘M good,” Steve whispers back, clenching on Bucky’s fingers.

Bucky smiles at him, rubbing their noses together. Steve pushes up to kiss him again, just for a second, and Bucky chuckles. Steve falls back to the bed, blushing.

“You’re so fuckin’ cute, baby boy,” Bucky says. “You want kisses?”

Steve just nods, biting his lip.

Bucky kisses the tip of his nose. Steve whines in an upset way and Bucky kisses his cheek. He starts kissing all over Steve’s face, and as he does, he slides a third finger into Steve’s hole with little effort.

“Daddy!” Steve gasps, eager and demanding all at once. “Daddy, please, please fuck me, sir, please, please?”

“Yeah, baby, Daddy’s gonna,” Bucky says, lips brushing Steve’s cheek. “Don’t you worry your pretty head one bit about it, honey, Daddy’s right here, Daddy’s got you.”

“Please?” Steve just keeps whining.

Bucky kisses his mouth. Steve moans under his lips, then whines as Bucky’s fingers slide out of him. 

“Does Daddy need a rubber, sweet pea?” Bucky asks softly.

“No!” Steve insists, desperate. “Please, Daddy, please don’t, need you, need you, need you –”

“Shh,” Bucky murmurs against his lips.

Bucky’s cock rubs against his crease. Steve chokes on an inhale, gasps it back in, then starts to sob. Bucky kisses away his tears and his cock slides from his taint to his hole, then starts pushing in. 

Steve forgets to breathe, his heart flutters to a stop. Bucky exhales softly. His cock fills Steve slowly, then all at once and Bucky’s bottoming out with a grunt. Steve inhales sharply.

“Tha’s my boy,” Bucky murmurs. “Daddy’s good boy.”

Steve is full of bliss. He’s crying still, but he feels perfect. Everything is perfect.

Bucky pulls back by an inch and slides home again. Steve exhales, shivers going down his spine. Bucky lets out a soft groan, almost bitten back, almost a growl, and Steve whimpers as he tenses his arms in place.

“Daddy,” he breathes, “can I…?”

Bucky kisses him again, then reaches up with both hands and laces their fingers together. Steve squeezes his hands; metal and flesh, slightly tacky with lube. Bucky moves his cock slowly, dragging it in and out.

“Thank you,” Steve murmurs against Bucky’s mouth. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” Bucky whispers. “So fuckin’ much.”

Steve wouldn’t describe that moment as  _ “having sex.” _ It wasn’t fucking. It was what made him  _ real. _ It was what melted the last bit of ice still trapped in his chest. Bucky drags his cock in and out of Steve’s hole, scraping over his prostate, until, slowly, Steve comes untouched. Then his teeth bite down over his scent gland and Steve comes to life.

He feels Bucky purring in his chest. He floats in a tidal wave of his Daddy’s love. Bucky comes in him, fills him, and knots him, and Steve settles back onto a cloud with Bucky’s lips still pressed to his.

“That’s my boy,” Bucky murmurs against his mouth. “Daddy loves you, sweetheart. Daddy loves his sweet boy.”

For the first time in two years, Steve feels whole again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _voila. see you later_


	6. no grave can hold my body down, i’ll crawl home to you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _this is an epilogue and its sole purpose is to be cute. enjoy._

#  _ part 5: no grave can hold my body down, i’ll crawl home to you _

  
  


The next day, Fury calls. Soldier – still just Soldier, as he’s hesitant to claim the man Steve swore he is – spoke with him briefly on the situation. Steve is his and SHIELD needs to respect that. Fury emails him the paperwork that would document the change in their relationship. Soldier fills it out and has Steve sign everything, then sends it back. Fury notifies Soldier that he and Steve had been granted four days leave, then leaves them alone.

Soldier has none of the things necessary to care for or pamper a Submissive. He orders toys and restraints online. He buys Steve a softer, cuter collar than what they had used in the 30s; this one is pink and has bows and a tag that reads  _ Daddy’s Princess. _ Steve loves it when it arrives. The sight of it on him is one of the most beautiful things Soldier’s ever been privileged to see.

Steve empties his apartment and not long later, everything he owns is in Soldier’s place. The old armchair, the one Bucky had carved his name into as a kid, now sits in Soldier’s living room alongside his deep leather couch and Alpine’s floor-to-ceiling cat tree. 

They still work, but now Soldier goes with Steve everywhere he goes. It’s simple to step into a subordinate position for Steve when he’s in Captain America mode when Soldier knows that once the mission is through, Steve will be back on his knees by Soldier’s feet, begging for attention and purring up a storm. And when the missions are over, that’s the first thing Steve does; fall to his knees in front of Soldier and beg for attention.

Bits and pieces of Bucky fill in the gaps in Soldier’s mind the longer he spends with Steve. He doubts that he will ever fully recover everything burned out of his head, but he knows the important things. He remembers his family, his younger sisters, his parents. He remembers the first time he got detention with Steve at school. He remembers when Steve presented, and the heady rush that had been. He remembers their first kiss, their first fuck, and the day he first collared Steve. The anniversary of their first bonding is September 6th. Soldier buys Steve flowers and chocolates and many other sappy, cliche things when it comes around. 

Sometimes, he feels okay claiming Bucky's name. Other days, he sticks with just Soldier. Steve doesn't mind, and the times that Soldier feels like he doesn't deserve to be Bucky slowly ebb away.

Bucky’s neighbors complain regularly about how loud the two of them get while fucking. It’s entirely Steve’s fault; he moans too prettily for Soldier to gag him. Sound-proofing in their bedroom would be a worthy investment, but Bucky starts thinking of something a little more drastic.

“I think it would be nice,” Steve tells him, lying tucked into his side and playing with his chest hair with an idle finger. “You, me, the middle of nowhere.”

“You could scream yourself hoarse,” Bucky replies, kissing Steve’s hair.

“I don’t scream,” Steve counters, flushing brightly.

“You scream,” Bucky insists.

It’s relatively easy to accomplish. The land and house are bought, a few critters to keep it noisy, and Bucky files the necessary paperwork. They pack up and take a boat instead of a plane. Alpine gets anxious in their cabin, so Bucky and Steve spend much of the trip cuddling him. 

“We should have kids,” Steve says one lazy afternoon.

Bucky kisses Steve’s forehead and nuzzles him lightly. “If you’d like,” he murmurs.

Bucky somehow already knows how to milk cows and goats and sheep. Steve is a slower learner, but eager. On their sprawling farm in the lush, green fields in the south of Ireland, Bucky picks up gardening and making cheese and jams and butters, and Steve starts making art again, even picking up newer, more modern medias. He still works for SHIELD, but only on occasion. Bucky is totally retired.  He’s himself most days, and he wants to leave his past behind.

“Buck?” Steve calls, entering the barn.

Bucky looks up from milking a ewe, reaching up to stroke her wool as Steve nears with a grin. “What’s up?” he asks.

Steve gets close and cups Bucky’s chin, lifting it, to press their lips together. Bucky smiles, but can’t touch Steve in return as he has milk on his hands and Steve’s clothes are clean.

“We’re gonna have a baby,” Steve murmurs against his lips.

Bucky jumps up, scooping Steve into a tight embrace despite the milk. Steve laughs, grinning, and Bucky kisses him.

“Yeah?” he whispers, lips still on Steve’s.

“Yep,” Steve says. “Officially pregnant, doctor just confirmed it.”

Bucky brushes their noses together, grinning widely. “When’re you due, mama?” he asks. “What do you wanna paint the nursery?”

“Dunno, and yellow,” Steve says. “With Winnie the Pooh characters.”

“You got it,” Bucky answers. “Whatever you want, babydoll, you got it.”

Steve smiles and presses close for another kiss. Bucky savors his mouth, delighting in his taste and his scent, already anticipating how pregnancy will change the way he smells and looks. Behind them, a goat brays and Bucky pulls back while Steve snorts.

“Be patient!” Bucky calls.

The goats take up screaming and the ewes join them. Even their cow lows. Steve laughs and pushes Bucky back, stepping away.

“Get back to work, Farmer Barnes,” he says. “I’m gonna get the garden weeded.”

“We’re not done,” Bucky insists, already dropping down on his stool to keep milking. “I’m gonna plow your knocked-up ass at lunch.”

“So romantic,” Steve answers, giggling. “Love you.”

“Love you, too, baby boy,” Bucky says, waving as Steve leaves the barn.

With a grin, Bucky resumes milking the animals. He ushers them out of the barn and their Border Collie, Sage, leaps into action to start herding them into the pasture. Bucky whistles to call Sage back, then closes up the pasture and walks with the dog back to the garden behind the house. 

Steve is kneeling, pulling up weeds, and Bucky leans on a fence for a while to watch him. His hair is lightened from the days of sunlight, there are dark freckles dotting his face and arms, and his middle is already softened from their baby on the way, the whole reason they’d had a pregnancy test done in the first place. Steve must sense his gaze, because he looks up, blocking the sun with his hand, and smiles and waves to him. Sage pushes between his legs to get into the garden and runs to lick Steve’s face. Bucky blows Steve a kiss, then goes to feed the chickens.

It’s a good life they have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _the end._

**Author's Note:**

> _you can check out me out on other places on the internet if you so wish;[my twitter](https://twitter.com/moonythejedi), [my tumblr](http://moonythejedi394.tumblr.com/). no minors, please!_


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